


The Gift

by magpie_fngrl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Captive Prince Darker Themes: please see chapter notes, Dildos, Discipline, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Lack of aftercare in one instance, M/M, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Semi-Public Sex, Sensation Play, Sharing, Voyeurism, Writer Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl
Summary: "‘You’ll give me an hour of your time and I’ll take your thoughts and your worries. You’ll let me take control; dictate your actions. One hour where you’ll blindly obey me—in return for…distraction.’"Or, in which Draco is a writer struggling with his first novel, Harry is worried about something he won't reveal, and they both try to figure out how to put their tangled past behind them and move on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chibaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibaken/gifts).



> My darling Chibaken,  
> I still remember the joy I felt when I read your comments on my very first drarry fic, full of your trademark enthusiasm and infinite kindness. The capslock!! I so loved the capslocks!:DD You quickly became one of my first drarry friends, even before I had a fandom blog, and you remain one of the truest. You've been supportive, generous and fun to be around with, a wonderful writer, a dedicated reccer and an awesome beta, and I don't know what I've done to deserve you. I can only be thankful to the fandom gods for bringing you into my life ❤❤❤❤  
> This fic is long overdue (about 18 months lol), sorry! I do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> An ocean of love and gratitude to **[Bixgirl1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1)** and **[LowerEastSide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowerEastSide/pseuds/LowerEastSide)** for being my wonderful alphas and betas and all the letters of the alphabet ( _omegas_ hehehe --yes I'm twelve lol). This fic wouldn't be the same without them. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
>  **Note to readers re: Captive Prince**  
>  This fic draws heavily on the Captive Prince trilogy, but rest assured that you can follow the main story between Harry and Draco without having read it. If you do intent to read CP eventually, bear in mind that there might be some spoilers here. As CP has some darker themes in it, please do read chapter notes.  
>    
>  **Please check[my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/profile) for tagging/concrit/permissions info.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captive Prince content warnings: slavery.

There’s an eclipse the day Potter arrives at the guesthouse, a portent of doom if Draco’s ever seen one.

Not that he knows it at the time. At dawn he crosses the road to Brighton beach with Amy and the other guests and stares at the apocalyptic sky with specially-charmed glasses. The incandescent sunrise dims. The world turns grey. The birds, unsettled, caw or chirp loudly. Despite everything they know about eclipses, when the sky turns dark, an involuntary shiver runs through the crowd, Muggles and wizards alike. Yet another thing they have in common: this visceral fear for the unnatural.

It doesn’t last long. Soon the sun casts its rays on the assembled crowd again, and the day proceeds as normal. It’s almost as if the eclipse didn’t happen. Everyone heads back to work or home somewhat disappointed that this phenomenon came and went without consequence; as if the eclipse meant _nothing_. It’s like, Draco muses, they feel vaguely upset that some sort of catastrophe failed to occur.

Draco doesn’t mind. He’s been through enough disasters in his life.

 

An hour later, he’s in the kitchen writing—or, rather, failing to. At the end of a labourious sentence, he huffs, scratches the whole paragraph out and falls back in his chair with a grunt.

“What’s wrong now?” Amy asks.

Draco had decided to work in her company this morning instead of returning to his _garret_ —as he calls his room on the top floor of the guesthouse. She’s been tidying the communal kitchen, which a merry band of Hogwarts graduates, here on a stag do, left a complete tip yesterday. The only place not filthened with crumbs or sticky smears of ketchup and mayonnaise—at least Draco _hopes_ it’s mayonnaise—is one end of the kitchen table, which he’s covered with scrunched up parchment, spilled ink and angry frustration.

‘I’ve done so much research,’ he tells her, as if Amy wasn’t the one who checked out the books on the evacuation of Dunkirk from the Muggle library. ‘I know the events as if I lived through them myself. I can see my main character as clearly as if he’s standing in front of me. But the story— it’s not working.’

Amy puts down her wand, leaving the dishes to wash themselves in the sink, and leans over Draco’s shoulder. Her long hair tickles his cheek, and she smells of washing-up liquid and _Poison_ , her favourite perfume, which she applies liberally. Her hazel-green eyes—stunning against her deep brown skin—scan the paper in front of him, and Draco wonders if she sees what he does. Half of the sentences are struck out, and the rest… isn’t good.

‘Historical fiction— _Muggle_ World War II historical fiction—isn’t an easy topic to write about.’ Amy puts a comforting hand on Draco’s shoulder. ‘You’re not trusting yourself. Don’t stop and edit every sentence as you write it. Give yourself permission to suck.’ She stops for a beat. ‘And not just cock.’

Draco snorts. He swats at her as she returns to the sink. ‘Your mind is in the gutter.’

She winks. ‘Best place for a mind to be.’ She rinses the dishes and Levitates them on the counter to dry. ‘In fact,’ she says, thoughtful, ‘the gutter might be exactly what you need.’ She swivels towards him, her belly button ring winking from under her cropped top. ‘I have a suggestion.’

‘Is it to write drunk? I tried it. I wrote gibberish and then passed out on my desk.’

‘No—and I’d said “tipsy”. It was you who downed half an Ogden’s in one go. My suggestion is this: let the book go.’

His reaction is instantaneous and visceral, an ice cold fist clenching his chest, and Amy must notice his expression, because she hastens to explain. ‘I don’t mean abandon it. I’m not, in any way, suggesting you can’t write this novel. I’m in awe of every sentence you write, and I don’t say this lightly. What I mean is that perhaps you’re not ready to write it _now_. It’s your first attempt at a novel, and you’ve chosen a remarkable but daunting topic. Why don’t you write something for fun? Something to strengthen your writing muscles before you tackle a work of that magnitude? It’ll loosen you up, get your creative juices going.’

The tension ebbs out of Draco, and he exhales. ‘You make everything sound like an innuendo.’

‘My true goal in life.’ She holds his gaze. ‘Think about what I said, all right? Write me a sexy story, you know I love those.’

 ‘You love _filth_ , Amy. I’ve got aspirations—’

‘Yeah, yeah. If it’s so easy to write one, then how about you prove it? Now help me tidy up. I’ve got Ministry guests coming for a conference. Important people, not like you and me.’

‘Does that mean you’ll say the word “cock” less?’ Draco sends the papers to his room and casts a Scourgify on the spilled ink.

‘I’ll probably say it _more_.’

 

The Ministry guests arrive an hour later. Echoes of their voices and their steps thundering up the narrow stairs drift to the third floor where Draco’s mulling over Amy’s suggestion. Far from an actual garret, his room is large and airy with tall windows looking out over the Brighton beach and the charred ruin of the old pier. The three rooms on his floor are available only for long-term guests, but besides a travelling salesman of magical encyclopedias who’s gone most of the month, the other room has been empty for a while. It’s been peaceful; an ideal place for Draco, who returned to England after years of travelling, to gather his thoughts and write.

Bright June sunlight pours on his desk, and he sits and pulls a piece of parchment towards him. He taps his quill. Write something _fun_. Draco hasn’t written anything fun since the time he composed those Harry Potter satires in Year Five. Casting for inspiration, he lets his mind wander. He thinks of the satires and of Harry Potter, who he hasn’t seen since the trials four years ago; he remembers the humiliation of being judged and found wanting; he remembers how the only thing that had saved him from Azkaban was Potter, and how, in that way, his rival had irrevocably triumphed over him. Draco owes his freedom to Potter, not just his life: heavy debts to carry. Impossible to repay. He remembers the fight—

A tremor runs through him, a quiet earthquake that brings to the surface the feelings he’s suppressed: the grief and the guilt and the regret, the cold sweat that the mere smell of smoke gives him, the years of being a pariah, watching his parents pack up their lives and exile themselves to Croatia, his unrelenting thirst for recognition that is yet to be quenched—and most importantly, his rage, always bubbling under the surface, always threatening to spill out and scorch the earth around him.

His new character, he decides, won’t be a soldier in someone else’s war. He will be a _prince_.

 

**The Gift**

Chapter One 

 

> ‘Your Grace,’ the Consul bowed, ‘King Thiago has sent you a gift.’
> 
> Prince Louis was returning from his brother’s mausoleum accompanied by a torch-bearing elf and his Guard. ‘Back from Elvairon, Consul Tache? How _is_ that vile country?’
> 
> ‘As to be expected, Your Grace. In unrest after the sudden death of King Dorian and the disappearance of his heir, Prince Maximilian.’ The Consul wheezed trying to keep up with the prince’s long strides, his breath coming in sharp exhales.
> 
> Louis smirked at the word: _disappearance_. The real fate of Prince Max was a secret entrusted to very few in the palace. As it happened, the Consul had no idea of the coup that had been orchestrated by the second son of the former king, now King Thiago, and his secret allies: Crown Prince Louis of Lumonde, and Vallerand, his Regent. Louis smiled with grim satisfaction as he thought of the marble tomb of his beloved brother, Auguste; dead before his time due to the wickedness of Elvairon’s firstborn heir. Felled by a spell that was cast by that man’s hand, a man Louis loathed more than anything.
> 
> Well, Prince Max was dead now. His own brother had seen to it.
> 
> He reached his apartments with the Consul in tow. ‘And what’s the gift?’ Louis asked the rotund man.
> 
> ‘Ah— a slave, Your Grace. A… a bed warmer, as they call them.’
> 
> ‘What a barbaric country.’
> 
> ‘Nonetheless…’ the Consul didn’t have to finish the sentence. Louis had to formally accept this appalling gift to appease his new ally.
> 
> ‘I might as well get it done with. Lead the way,’ he gestured at the Consul, who trudged up the stairs to the east wing. Louis had never felt as much distaste as when he’d met Thiago, a vulgar, vain man with more cunning than intellect, but with the new treaty and the delicate balance in his own palace—mere months before his coronation—he had to be diplomatic about the gift.
> 
> His Steward let him in the slave’s accommodation.
> 
> ‘All right,’ said Louis, already bored with the proceedings, ‘where is this—?’
> 
> He froze, as if he’d been slapped. The slave on the floor of the room had raised his head and glowered at him and—and— but it couldn’t be!
> 
> The Regent had said he’d been _taken care of_. The implications of the “gift” acquired new dimensions; subtle and insidious and tangled. Louis would have to consider them carefully later, but for now he tried to stem the flood of thoughts and force his expression to remain calm and his mouth to speak. The pause had gone on too long; it wouldn’t do to betray what, evidently, none of his courtiers realised: this slave was the former Crown Prince of the Elvairon kingdom, the thrice-cursed killer of his older brother: Prince Maximilian himself.
> 
> Louis noticed the black leather gloves on him, embroidered with the silver runes designed to stifle magic. ‘Why is he wearing those?’
> 
> ‘He’s good with wandless charms, m’lord,’ said his handler. ‘Caused all manner of trouble on the ship on the way here.’
> 
> As the shock faded, a delicious, dark thrill ran through Louis’s veins at the sight of Prince Max kneeling at his feet, chained and gagged and at his mercy. A word from Louis about his true identity would have the man lynched. He could see in the slave’s eyes that he was aware of the danger he was in. Lumonde’s people had loved Auguste, Louis’s older brother, and despised his killer.
> 
> Louis wouldn’t allow anyone else to take that pleasure from him, though: he’d be the one to kill the slave.
> 
> ‘I wish to speak to him.’
> 
> ‘He—
> 
>  

_Thud_.

Draco tries to focus on the lulling sound of the traffic coming from the open window and ignore the disruption. Noise distracts him, but surely these people will leave soon for their very important conference.

 

> ‘He ain’t what you’d call polite, m’lord,’ said the handler. ‘Swears worse than a sailor.’
> 
> ‘Do it.’
> 
> The man yanked the slave’s gag off.
> 
> ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ Louis asked.
> 
> The slave—
> 
>  

THUD.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Draco grits out and pushes back from his desk. He hates being interrupted when the words flow, and he’s of a mind to tell these people to fuck off, Ministry or no Ministry.

In horror, he sees the door of the room next to him ajar, meaning that Amy has let it out. He knocks loudly and enters without waiting, opening his mouth at the same time for some choice words, when he freezes as if he’s been slapped.

Harry fucking Potter stands by the window, shoving the sash up, but for some reason it won’t stay put and—

 _Thud_.

Absurdly, Draco chastises himself as if it was his reminiscing of Potter earlier that had summoned the man in Draco’s life. For whatever mystical or mundane reason—the sane part of Draco’s mind seems to remember it’s an _Auror_ conference—Potter is _here_ , once again breathing the same air as Draco.

Ever since that day at the Ministry and the fight they had had, Draco assumed he’d never see him again. Potter was someone who belonged resolutely in the past—along with all of Draco’s mistakes. Now, as he gazes at the man who reminds Draco of the worst of himself, a rift threatens to rip through the peaceful existence he’s carved here.

 _This isn’t who I am_ , Potter had said the last time they had met. The spark of bitter anger Draco has worked hard to suppress these past four years becomes a blaze when those green eyes meet his own.

‘ _Malfoy_?’ Potter looks as stunned as Draco feels.

Draco recovers from his shock and assumes an icy tone. ‘Potter. I should’ve known it’d be you causing this ruckus. Some of us are trying to work, you know.’

‘Hardly a ruckus,’ Potter says. ‘I cast _Reparo,_ but it didn’t take and—’

‘So you decided to just shove the window up and hope for the best. Repeatedly. How _smart_.’

Potter’s eyes narrow. ‘D’you want something?’

‘Yes. To tell you to stop making a ruckus.’ Draco storms to his room and almost slams his door. Almost, because Amy would have him skinned alive for doing that.

He sits back down, staring at the Brighton beach, where a second-hand book stall has attracted a few passers-by. Seagulls caw as they circle the sky in their incessant search of food. He hears no more thuds. Shaking the tension off his limbs, he grabs his quill. Prince Maximilian should have a scar, he decides. On his torso, a long line that crosses one of his nipples, given to him by Louis’s brother in the duel that claimed his life. A famous scar that he fears will lead to his identity being discovered.

He attempts to continue writing, but it’s impossible. Potter intrudes in his thoughts like a tornado, obliterating the past four years and bringing the memory to the surface, sharp and clear, as if it was yesterday that Draco stood in front of him in a too-bright Ministry bathroom, making one more mistake. Fury and resentment choke him at the memory of the expression Potter had worn on his face as he shoved Draco. He flings his quill on the desk and thunders down the stairs to the reception desk on the ground floor, where Amy is talking with a redheaded woman.

‘Need a word,’ he says.

She glances at him with concern. ‘Be back in a sec, Ali,’ she tells her friend and takes Draco past the lounge where a gaggle of Ministry officials in unimaginative ties are having tea and through to the dining area. A large mural of the old Brighton pier painted by her father dominates the wall.

‘What is it?’ She sounds worried. Merlin knows what Draco’s expression looks like.

‘Potter has to go,’ he tells her.

‘What? Go where?’

‘At least give him a room downstairs. I really don’t see why you let him have the room next to mine when it’s for long-term guests—’

Amy straightens. ‘I gave him that room, because we’re full and—well. He’s Harry Potter. What’s the problem?’

Draco has confided in her about his school years, she really ought to be more understanding. ‘I can’t _stand_ the man,’ he explains. ‘I—I have reasons to want him out of there. We had a fight. We had many fights, but the last one—it was bad.’

Amy crosses her arms. ‘Well, I can’t very well tell him to go away.’

‘Then I’ll go. I’ll leave as long as he’s here.’ Draco’s always had a tendency for dramatic pronouncements, not that Amy is impressed at all.

‘And go where?’ Her eyes are soft. She knows better than anyone that Draco has nowhere else to stay. His former friends have either moved on with their lives or aren’t returning his Owls, his parents left the country… Draco has no home to go to. ‘You’re welcome to find another hotel for the duration of their stay. But my advice, Draco, is: don’t run away. Let go of whatever grudge you’re harbouring.’

He crosses his arms. ‘I like harbouring my grudge. It has nowhere else to go either.’

‘Hey, I have a wild suggestion,’ she says, ignoring his petulant tone. ‘You could forgive Potter for whatever it was you fought about.’

It’s the most ridiculous thing Draco’s ever heard. ‘Even if I forgive, I can’t _forget_.’

She gives him a grim smile. ‘And look where that got you. Living in a place not meant for putting down roots. Not being able to write a page without doubting yourself.’

Draco is stung, because she’s right. ‘I don’t see what any of that has to do with _Harry fucking Potter_.’

‘It has everything to do with you being unable to let go of the past. You don’t see it, but I do; you mourn your former glory while at the same time you despise everything about it. You’re trying to distance yourself from the past but you’re also fiercely clinging on it. Draco,’ she softens her voice, ‘you’re stuck. You need to let all of it rest, the good memories and the bad.’

‘Thanks for the free therapy. I feel so much better.’

Her usually warm eyes turn to flint. ‘Merlin, you can be a dick. I won’t speak to you when you’re like this. Let me know if you’re keeping the room or not.’

She shoves past him and returns to her desk and her friend. Draco lingers in the dining room, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the flood of thoughts and emotions. Sounds of lapping waves and bird-calling drift from the mural, a technique from Trinidad that doesn’t give movement to the paintings like the British ones, but sound.

Draco could pack a bag and leave for a while, but Amy’s right: it’s nothing other than running away with his tail between his legs, his default reaction. After the trials—and that second bathroom fight—he fled to the four corners of the world. This time his pride protests the idea. Potter won’t run him out of his home, and Draco certainly doesn’t want to give Amy the satisfaction of knowing she’s right, even though there was a little (a lot of) truth in what she said.

Restlessness leads Draco to the kitchen, searching for something to occupy himself. He considers making a sandwich when he spots a messy dark head in the back garden, a sight that winds Draco up even more than he already is.

He should leave. Right now—go back to his room and read something to take his mind off. Or go for a walk or a swim.

Instead, he steps out in the sunlight. A sea breeze blows, bringing the scent of salt and iodium in Draco’s nostrils. Keeping his distance from Potter, Draco darts a furtive glance at the man. Potter looks good, unfortunately. Taller, stronger-looking than at the trials when Draco wondered if a gust of wind would blow him away. A man, not a boy. Hair still a mess. New glasses. Tense around the shoulders.

‘I thought you’d left the country. Croatia.’ Potter breaks the silence first.

‘My parents did. I went further than that.’

‘And now you’re back.’

‘Apparently.’ Draco loads the word with contempt.

Potter shoots him an inscrutable glance but doesn’t react otherwise. ‘You living here?’

‘This conversation is scintillating.’

Potter turns. ‘Would you rather I told you you looked good?’

Every muscle Draco has tenses instantly. ‘I’d rather you fucked off from here, actually, but it doesn’t look I’ll get my wish, will I?’

Potter shrugs. ‘It’s only a week.’

There’s something in Potter’s eyes that he can’t decipher. Potter looks… upset. Shaken. It intrigues the writer in Draco. Or so he tells himself. He has the distinct impression that Potter isn’t one hundred per cent _there_ with him. Something else occupies his thoughts, and Draco resents it. _He_ ’s one hundred _and ten_ per cent there, Potter pulling him in like a magnet just like he always has, and he’s also not used to Potter being anything but _intensely_ focused on him in return.

‘Catching up was fun,’ Draco says in his most mocking tone. ‘Have fun at your conference.’

He’s almost through the kitchen door when Potter calls him. ‘Draco.’

Draco pauses, but doesn’t turn to Potter. ‘What?’

‘I meant it. You look good.’

 _Fuck off._ Instead of hurtling the words to Potter’s face, Draco swallows them for a change and returns to his room where he slams the door. The sound reverberates through the building, but as far as Draco is concerned, Amy can stuff it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captive Prince content warning: threat of rape (not in the Drarry part of the story but in the book Draco's writing).

To his immense surprise, Draco spends the afternoon in a productive session such as he hasn’t experienced in years. He’s _fuming_ , his body wired, his back rigid. Spite fuels the fire in his belly and words pour from his fingertips like flowing lava. The nation of Lumonde takes shape as he vents every frustration he has about the stuffy, homophobic wizarding society he was raised in. In Lumonde, he decides, it’s the norm for men to fuck men and women to fuck women. Sex with the opposite sex is restricted to procreation, otherwise people find joy in the beds of same-sex partners. He wants to take things even further, to make the contrast to his puritan pureblood society even starker: public sex performances are culturally acceptable in Lumonde. Kinky sex is discussed freely in polite society. No shame is attributed to carnal pleasures whatsoever. Max’s country, Elvairon, is in comparison a conservative backwater where they place value on honour, even when they behave as anything but honourable. Gleeful, he writes them as brawny, brainless brutes.

 

 

> **The Gift**
> 
> Chapter Two
> 
>  
> 
> Prince Louis had spent the first night after receiving his gift in turmoil, his mind full of Auguste. Louis had adored his brother; he’d been a protector, a role model, and a friend. Losing Auguste left Louis bereft, alone to helplessly watch his mother’s slow descent into inconsolable grief. She died not long after Auguste; her love for her younger son not strong enough to counteract her grief for the demise of the older one.
> 
> Louis was placed in the care of his relative, Jean-Luc Vallerand, who assumed the role of the Regent as well as his duties over raising Louis. It hadn’t been a task he undertook with pleasure or any sense of devotion. Vallerand ruled with fear and with subterfuge, growing increasingly more displeased with his disappointment of a nephew. Restricting his movements had been one of his first commands, and for the first few years after he was orphaned, Louis had felt like a hostage in his own home.
> 
> And all because of Prince Max, who’d killed his brother.
> 
> Louis drank himself into a stupor that first night, which prompted him to make an ill-advised detour to the slave’s quarters. The guards he’d placed at the door woke the man roughly while Louis stood over him, staring at the hated face. Gods, he’d never before wanted to kill a man so desperately.
> 
> ‘I don’t know what to do with you,’ he confessed, his words slurring slightly.
> 
> The slave’s face showed only contempt, which fanned Louis’s infuriation. _I’m not sure you know much of anything_ was written all over his expression.
> 
> His superiority grated on Louis and his usual control slipped. ‘I’m trying to decide how to hurt you,’ he said, enjoying the widening of the slave’s eyes. _Yes_ , _you’re at my mercy now_. ‘I could have you flogged, starved, cut into strips. I could do anything to you I wanted. I simply don’t know what an Elvairon scum like you deserves.’
> 
> The slave scoffed. ‘Do your worst, _sweetheart_.’
> 
> Louis nodded to one of his guards and they cast a hex. Again. A trail of blood trickled down the slave’s torso, but his eyes stared back at Louis in defiance.
> 
> Max didn’t fear pain or violence. Louis would find out _what_ he feared. ‘Perhaps I should use you as Thiago intended.’
> 
> That threw the slave off. He frowned, possibly wondering whether Louis meant he’d stoop as low as to fuck him. Louis laughed, the wine in him making him sound wilder than normal.
> 
> ‘Did you think I’d take you in _my_ bed? As if I’d _soil_ myself with an Elvairon _pig_. No, I’d give you to the guards.’ He gestured casually to the two men behind him. ‘Or to the _barracks_. The men are keen to fuck an Elvairon. Show him his place.’
> 
> Now there was uncertainty in the slave’s eyes—and a hint of fear. Louis felt an intense satisfaction. ‘I can make you—’
> 
> Footsteps interrupted Louis, and a scattering of courtiers entered the room preceding the one man that Louis hadn’t wanted to see. Not here, not tonight.
> 
> ‘Surely, even you,’ the Regent said without preamble, ‘knows that a King’s gift is to be handled delicately. We signed a treaty with King Thiago. You do realise the need to tread carefully, don’t you?’ Vallerand had never hidden the condescension he felt for Louis.
> 
> ‘Treading carefully is one thing,’ Louis replied, voice smooth to hide his anger. ‘Rolling over to let Elvairon vermin fuck me is another.’
> 
> ‘I’m not asking you to use the slave as Thiago intended. Do what you will in your bed, but I won’t see him harmed.’
> 
> ‘He’s mine to do as I please.’
> 
> ‘A King’s gift is not to be handled carelessly, Louis. This is my order, and I expect you to obey it.’
> 
> _He **must** know_, Louis thought as the Regent approached the slave and examined him dispassionately. Vallerand was near the front where Auguste fought, and where Louis had sneaked under his invisibility cloak, unbeknown to everyone, to watch the final duel between his brother and Max. The Regent must know the identity of the slave, yet he behaved as if this was a slave of no consequence other than being a kingly gift.
> 
> Louis had never had cause to doubt Vallerand—until now.
> 
>  

Outside night has fallen, soft violet and breezy. The noise of the cafes and the chattering people on the promenade spills into Draco’s room while he thinks. In the end, he scratches that last sentence. He writes:

 

> Louis had long suspected Vallerand desired his death. He was now certain of it.

 

For three days, Draco hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Potter. His spite remains, however; a fertile field where the roots of his story dig deep. It’s Thursday night, and he’s in the kitchen sipping tea, his thoughts full of his characters: Louis, who’s cruel because he grew up in a cruel environment and who’s hated Max even before the death of his brother because he was taught to hate him; and Max, who has a code of honour that didn’t stop him from destroying Louis’s life. Both princes of two countries at constant war, currently under an uneasy treaty between Thiago, a young man of low cunning and high ambition, and Vallerand, a noble who assumed the running of Lumonde and developed a taste for it. Draco had wanted his prince to be in control, but the more he delves in the story, the more he discovers that Louis is _not_. Seen by Vallerand and the rest of the court as second-best, as unworthy of the throne, Louis struggles to assert himself.

It cuts a little too close to the bone.

It’s almost midnight when the Ministry party returns from wherever they’ve been wining and dining. They climb the stairs to their bedrooms with laughter and loud voices. He half-expects to hear Potter’s voice among them, but he’s also not surprised to see the man enter the kitchen alone.

Potter’s drunk. ‘There are you are,’ he slurs. He glances at the papers. ‘What are you writing?’

Draco sends the parchment to his room with a flick of his wand. ‘Nothing for your four eyes.’ He stands and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. ‘I see you had fun.’

Potter shrugs. ‘Dinner, the pub.’

The guesthouse is quiet now, everyone having retreated to their rooms. Footsteps echo from the floor above, which soon fade away. A lone lamp casts the corners of the kitchen in shadows, Potter’s glasses glinting in its light.

He doesn’t leave. They gaze at each other, and Draco is reminded of the time just after his trial. Only this time Potter’s expression hints at something eating him away, and Draco has no idea where it comes from. ‘What’s on your mind, Potter?’

Potter swallows. ‘ _You_.’

A single word shouldn’t make Draco’s insides flare with rage and lust. He’s also quite sure Potter’s deflecting. ‘There’s something else.’

‘It’s—’ Potter touches the counter and stares at his hands. ‘Life. Wanting something. Getting it. Or not getting it. Or not wanting it. Or…’ He trails off. ‘Knowing what you want: that’s the trick, isn’t it?’ He approaches Draco and tries to stroke his face.

Draco places his hand on Potter’s chest to maintain a distance between them. Potter’s alcohol-soaked romantic advance stirs feelings Draco would like to forget. Four years might have passed, but his body still responds treacherously to Potter’s desire. He’s not foolish enough, though, to think it’s totally genuine. Potter’s eyes hold more despair than they do longing, and besides, Draco hasn’t forgiven him. ‘What do you really want?’

Potter shuts his eyes. ‘I want you to distract me.’

 _In vino veritas_. It’s honest. It’s painful. He doesn’t want Draco, not as such, but someone to take the troubling thoughts from him for a short while. Draco knows too well that it doesn’t work; these worries, whatever they are, won’t go away after the short reprieve. But he also knows the aching desire for that reprieve, for those minutes of a blissfully empty mind.

‘I don’t see how this is my job.’

Potter’s voice is low and demanding. ‘But you want to? Right? You do want to?’

Draco clenches his fists. Wanting has nothing to do with it. Potter’s appeared in his life as suddenly as a forest fire—and just as devastatingly. Draco’s already shaken by the mere sight of him, by knowing his body wants him as much as before, that four years meant _nothing_ to the bottomless pit of desire he has for him—but he also knows that getting entangled with Potter in any sort of way will ruin him.

Unless he takes charge. Unless he gives Potter a taste of his own medicine. An idea swoops in Draco’s head, as deliciously enticing as his worst mistakes were. An idea born of resentment and rage and a desire for revenge, petty as it might be.

‘I owe you a lot, Potter,’ he says, his voice light, betraying nothing of the turmoil inside him. ‘You gave me my freedom, my life; debts I can never repay.’

He doesn’t mention the last time they met. The words that had cut him. _This isn’t who I am_. The pain from the memory swirls in his gut with his yearning for Potter, a dangerous cocktail that spurs him on. In the dim kitchen Draco utters the words: ‘I can give you a gift in return.’

Potter gazes into his eyes, waiting.

‘You’ll give me an hour of your time and I’ll take your thoughts and your worries. You’ll let me take control; dictate your actions. You’ll speak, or not, at my command. One hour where you’ll blindly obey me—in return for… _distraction_.’

Potter’s eyes have gone wide.

‘I can give you that gift, if you give me but an hour.’

Potter’s breathing hard now. His eyes shine. ‘Yes. Do we start now?’

‘No.’ Draco’s not a _complete_ arsehole. ‘You are in no position to think this through clearly.’ He waves a hand through the cloud of booze emanating from Potter. ‘Let me know tomorrow. If you decide you want it. If not, no hard feelings.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Potter says.

Draco pushes past him towards the door. ‘Drink some water.’

 

The next morning, Draco wakes to find a note slipped under his door.

_Yes. Tonight. Tell me when and where._

Draco uses Amy’s owl _: You’re still drunk_.

The reply flies through his window in the late afternoon.

_I’m not. Not anymore. My answer is yes. Tonight. Tell me when and where._

Draco clenches his quill as he stares at the note. In the daylight this idea of his seems lurid like a fake Galleon. In the end, he remembers it’s Friday and that Potter’ll be gone by Sunday. He remembers the Ministry bathroom, empty but for the noises of a desperate, fumbling kiss. He remembers the feel of Potter’s clean, starched robes, and of his cotton T-shirt underneath. Thin ribs. A hot mouth.

And then a shove.

_This is not who I am._

Draco unclenches his quill. _Midnight at the kitchen._

The owl bearing his missive soars to the bright blue sky and disappears behind the rooftops.

 

When midnight comes, Draco enters the dark kitchen to find Potter waiting for him. A glass of water is in front of him on the table. No hint of alcohol. The light from a streetlamp is the only illumination.

Draco leans on the arched doorway that separates the kitchen from the dining room with its fleet of small, round tables. ‘Just so we’re clear about this, you will allow me to make your choices for you for an hour.’ His body is vibrating from tension already.

Potter rises and leans on the counter. His voice is steady even though he looks wound tight. ‘Yes.’

‘You’ll do anything I say?’

Potter raises an eyebrow, meeting his challenge. ‘Anything.’

Cocky as always. Anticipation thrums in Draco’s veins. ‘You should pick a safeword.’

Potter opens his mouth to object like the reckless Gryffindor he is before he pauses. His expression turns sobering, reflecting. Perhaps he’s beginning to grasp what the evening is going to be like—what it means to give up control. Draco might have dabbled in the past with the more… _adventurous_ kind of experiences, but he’ll be damned if Potter has any idea what he’s let himself in for.

Well. Potter’s soon to find out.

After mulling it over, Potter says, ‘Hippogriff.’

How appropriate. ‘Hippogriff.’ Draco glances at the clock. ‘It’s five minutes past midnight. You’re giving me an hour.’

Potter nods.

‘Well, I think you should be naked for this hour.’

Potter inhales, his gaze sharpening with desire.

He doesn’t make a move though, and Draco _tsk_ s. ‘I don’t like to be kept waiting.’

Potter’s about to say something—something snarky and recalcitrant no doubt—but he stops himself. He turns his eyes to his chest and fumbles with his buttons.

‘Slowly,’ Draco advises. For the first time, he allows his face to soften to a smirk. ‘I want you to give me a good show.’

Potter’s cheeks heat beautifully as he complies. His hand moves from top to bottom, popping each button to reveal a slither of skin. He keeps his eyes locked with Draco’s when he pulls his shirt off.

Auroring suits Potter. His arms are strong, his stomach firm. There’s something feline in his movements, probably a result of agility training and regular duelling. A thatch of hair covers his chest and a dark trail leads from his belly button to his groin, where Potter’s unzipping his jeans. He doesn’t make light of Draco’s instructions, or joke about doing a strip-tease as someone else might do to hide their awkwardness. No, Harry Potter obeys Draco earnestly, and that alone is enough to set Draco’s blood to boil.

Potter pauses before he pulls his jeans down and glances at the room behind Draco, and the darkened lounge further back.

‘Worried someone might come in?’ Draco asks.

‘A little.’

‘I can temporarily ward the door so that no one can interrupt us. To preserve your modesty.’ Draco gives him a smile. ‘But I won’t. Let them all come in. I want them to see you. Merlin,’ Draco adds with relish, ‘the _sight_ you’ll make.’

Draco knows well that no one is likely to come to the kitchen at this time, especially with Amy’s After Hours Service spell, which allows guests to serve themselves without needing to leave their rooms. But Potter might not know it, and Draco’s not about to tell him.  

‘Off.’ He nods at Potter’s jeans.

He resists. ‘We can do this upstairs.’

‘Is that a challenge?’ Draco asks, voice deceptively light. ‘I distinctly remember you agreeing to blindly obey me.’

He wonders if Potter’ll use his safeword. Perhaps he thought this was Draco’s way to get him to bed, instead of—whatever this is. Perhaps being exposed to the risk of being seen has pushed Potter too far. Draco wants to push him far, though, so he continues, his voice low and fierce. ‘You said _anything_. That means that if I tell you to stroll down Brighton beach naked, you’ll do it. No questions asked. No hesitation. No peep from you. So choose,’ Draco says. ‘Say your safeword or _take off your fucking jeans_.’

Potter’s glasses reflect the streetlight, hiding his eyes. A pause, and he pushes his jeans to his knees.

‘Good boy.’

The words catch Draco by surprise; he had no intention of saying them, but they do more than surprise Potter. A shiver runs through him as he kicks his jeans onto the floor.

Draco casts a faint _Lumos_. ‘Come here. I want to see you.’

Two steps, and Potter stands under the soft light. His blush deepens, his hands seem to be trembling and he sports a semi that seems to be filling under Draco’s keen gaze.

Draco’s heart drums loudly in the silent space. All his fantasies did _not_ prepare him for the sight of a nude Potter in real life. It’s enough to make Draco lose his sanity.

It won’t do to betray any of this, of course. Composing his face in the “Slytherin special”, an expression of disdainful boredom, Draco strolls around Potter as if he’s examining merchandise, taking him in from top to glorious bottom.

Merlin, Potter’s beautiful. No question about it. He’s shapely and just hairy enough, the way Draco likes, with an array of moles on his back and knobbly knees that add to his infernal charm. Potter’s arse comprises of two pert round mounds that tempt Draco to lay his hands on them and _knead_. But he’s afraid he won’t stop there, and that’s not what tonight is.

Instead, he drinks Potter in: his skin, his scars, the tense way he’s holding himself, waiting for instruction. It pleases Draco immensely to see that Potter isn’t thinking about anything right now other than _Draco_. Potter’s whole attention is trained on him, and that’s the greatest aphrodisiac Draco has experienced. Sweat gathers on his back in his effort to control his galloping pulse. He finishes his inspection and stands, still fully clothed, in front of the naked man.

Potter breathes hard. If Draco stepped one inch closer, he’d feel his breath on his cheek.

‘Do you feel uncomfortable naked?’ Draco asks.

‘No. I just—I thought you’d get undressed, too.’

So, Potter did assume this was a prelude to sex. A game. Foreplay. But Draco isn’t playing.

‘Not tonight,’ Draco says.

‘Another night then?’

‘It was a figure of speech.’ Draco hasn’t planned for this to happen again. ‘Follow me.’ The orb of light trails behind him.

He moves to the dining room and points at a table under the mural. ‘Sit. One leg on the chair next to you.’

It’s not one of the tables you can easily see from the entrance, a small favour to Potter. Draco pulls up a chair a few feet away, facing him. He gazes at Potter for some time, who looks back, open-legged, his cock twitching, his jaw set. Draco barely controls his drooling and his mental functions. He’s got to maintain a firm grip on his composure, or he’ll fall on his knees and suck Potter off like a two-knut whore.

Clearing his throat, Draco says, ‘Touch yourself.’

Eyes locked on Draco’s, Potter wraps a hand around his cock.

‘Slowly,’ Draco rasps. ‘ _Entertain_ me.’

The light falls on Potter’s groin, illuminating his hard, hefty cock and his fingers as he pulls the foreskin against the head and back. He fists himself in a steady, leisurely pace. His eyes burn with a mixture of lust and embarrassment.

It gratifies Draco, who sits back and crosses his legs. ‘Touch one of your nipples. Play with it.’

Potter obeys, and Draco watches. The dusky nub hardens under Potter’s finger, who sighs once, his eyelashes fluttering. His other hand hasn’t stopped its hypnotic movement, up and down, firm and steady. Draco has fantasised about Potter’s cock for years, both before and after the incident. His breath quickens; beads of sweat gather on his forehead as his blood pressure rises. For all Draco knows, the universe has vanished, and the whole world has become a dimly-lit dining room in a guesthouse where one man strokes himself and another watches him avidly.

Potter starts panting, his pace picking up.

‘Finger yourself,’ Draco says. ‘Lie back. I want to see everything.’

The embarrassment in Potter’s eyes grows, and his movements slow. The idea obviously stumps him. Or maybe he doesn’t like to finger himself. Draco stands and ambles towards him, pretending he’s a lot calmer than he is. ‘Which hand do you use to fuck yourself?’ he asks casually.

Potter clears his throat. ‘My right.’

So he does like the practice. Draco takes Potter’s right hand and brings it to his lips. Opening his mouth, he sucks two of Potter’s fingers, gazing down at him, while Potter looks up with a lost expression, squeezing the bottom of his cock to stop himself from coming. Draco sucks them thoroughly, his tongue curling around the fingers, coating them with saliva until they’re dripping, and removes them from his mouth. ‘Now do as I say.’

Cheeks bright red, Potter obeys and half-lies back on two chairs. He bends his knees high and slides his hand towards his arse, probing his puckered hole. Pushing his chair closer, Draco directs his _Lumos_ to shed its light there, casting the surrounding room in shadows. Potter strokes and fingers himself at the same time, and Draco hard-swallows, his body a burning field. He can’t take his eyes off Potter’s finger pumping in and out of his arse, accompanied by a symphony of grunts and moans from Potter, who seems to have finally let himself go. Draco’s erection strains against his jeans, and his breath comes shallow.

‘Do you like fucking yourself?’ Draco asks softly.

‘I-I do,’ Potter admits, eyes pursed tight.

‘Do you like me watching you do it?’

In a smaller voice: ‘I do.’

Unable to restrain himself, Draco strokes his cock through the fabric, pressing down his lips to hold back his moan. One more touch and he might come. ‘Do you fantasise about a big fat cock breaching you?’ he asks Potter, who moans in response. ‘Someone taking you hard and fast, tearing you open as you lie back helplessly and let him have his way?’

‘Oh god…’ Head thrown back, breathing ragged, Potter fits a second finger inside himself, thrusting both fast and insistently. His cock is leaking copiously, balls drawn tight. The sight is mesmerising; Draco has to hold onto the table, white-knuckled, to refrain from jumping up and shoving his cock inside Potter.

‘Do you fantasise about _my_ cock? Me fucking you?’

‘I—’

Draco realises he doesn’t want to hear it. ‘Don’t answer that.’ Instead, he Conjures a dildo and some lube. He approaches Potter and presses the tip of the dildo against his entrance.

At the touch, Potter’s eyes fly open and he raises his head. He takes in Draco, still clothed, and his eyes find the dildo. A hint of disappointment shadows his face. ‘I thought—’

‘Will you be a good boy and take this?’ Draco asks, running the dildo along the crevasse of Potter’s arse.

Flushed and sweaty, hair messed up and eyes bright with lust, Potter nods. He lies back down, and Draco pushes the dildo an inch inside. Up close, the smell of sex emanating from Potter is overwhelming. _Enticing_. Draco purses his lips and focuses on the dildo, sliding it in deep in Potter’s arse. He steps back, sits down, and with a movement of his wand like a composer, the dildo moves.

‘Sweet Merlin,’ Potter whispers.

‘I didn’t say you could stop touching yourself,’ Draco admonishes.

Potter resumes his wanking just as the dildo fucks him harder and faster. He’s moaning and writhing more wildly now, and it’s the hottest sight Draco has seen. The air is impossibly charged, and he’s soaked in sweat with the effort it takes to remember his purpose and not give in to the tantalising temptation that is Potter being thoroughly fucked.

‘Can you take more?’

‘More?’

‘I’ll take this as a _yes_. _Engorgio_ ,’ Draco says, carefully enlarging the dildo by an infinitesimal degree. He’s done this often before, mainly to himself, and knows of how even this almost imperceptible change pushes at the muscles of Potter’s arse to just the right side of discomfort.

‘I’m—’ Potter gasps. ‘I’m going to—'

Draco’s voice scrapes his throat. ‘Let me see it then.’

Fist flying on his cock, dildo pumping in his arse furiously, Potter comes with a yelp, stripes of spunk landing on his quivering stomach. He looks incoherent with the force of his orgasm. With a twist of Draco’s wand, the conjured dildo disappears into the ether. It grows quiet, but for their heavy breathing. Potter lies back for a long moment, catching his breath, eyes open at the ceiling. His limbs glisten with sweat, and one leg drops on the floor as he tries to sit up. He’s pink and dazed as he glances at Draco’s lap and back at his face. ‘You?’ he asks.

Draco stands in the middle of the room and beckons with a finger. He’s trembling with the force of what he’s about to do; what this whole exercise was meant to lead to. When Potter makes to stand, Draco stops him. ‘No. On your knees.’

The fact that Potter obeys—that he drops to his knees willingly in front of Draco—is a thing Draco will take to the grave. Potter crawls until he’s in front of Draco’s bulge, licking his lips. He looks up, eyes dark with lust. One word, and Potter will suck him off. Draco’s not sure he’s ever wanted anything else as desperately.

Another man would allow himself to indulge; to forget and to enjoy.

But Draco isn’t that man. He grabs Potter’s hair and pushes his head back, bending to speak to his ear. ‘Look at you, you filthy cockslut. On your fucking _knees_. Eager to suck my cock.’ He meets Potter’s eyes. ‘ _This_ is who you are.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captive Prince content warning: Rape threat, rape roleplay, public sex, pedophilia.

Potter gasps, his eyes widening as if he’s been Stunned. There’s no confusion in his expression as to what Draco’s words refer to. A hint of regret ripples in his face, followed by shame and then anger. Draco, a mess of choking emotions himself, lets go of Potter’s hair and stomps up the stairs. He breaks into a run until he reaches his room, shuts the door behind him, leans against it and pulls his cock out hastily. He comes right then and there after a few brief tugs, his knees giving out. On the floor, head bent and limp cock out of his half-open jeans, he presses his palms to his eyes. The bitter triumph he felt at seeing a debauched Potter on his knees, willing to suck Draco off, dissipates, leaving behind hollowness.

The evening’s images run through his head like wild horses. Draco won’t be able to sleep tonight. He opens the window to the refreshing night breeze, which brings in the smell of distant shores, and loses himself in his writing. If Potter returns to his room, Draco doesn’t hear it.

 

  **The Gift**

> Chapter Three
> 
>  
> 
> Hindered by the Regent’s orders, Louis had to be creative at coming up with tortures to visit upon the slave. Signing him up for the court entertainment, a non-magic fight followed by a mock rape, was an idea that appealed. However, the spoiled pets of the court weren’t the right opponents for what Louis had in mind, who wished the fight to end with the very real rape of the slave. The man might not fear violence, but everyone feared violation.
> 
> For that to happen, Louis needed someone willing to fight dirty, a man who could hurt the slave on Louis’s behalf in the ring, while absolving the Prince of blame; someone who wouldn’t baulk at mounting the slave and showing him his place. Luckily, the Regent had several unsavoury characters in his employ, and Vandor, built like a brick shithouse, a man as cruel as he was strong, would do anything for the right price.
> 
> Sitting at the Royal Box now, Louis watched as the slave, oiled, perfumed and painted, observed the pets having sex in the ring while the courtiers cheered. The slave’s expression was one of intense distaste, taking in the aristocrats around him, who allowed the girls or boys on their laps to reach inside their robes and bring them to a climax, while watching the winner of the fight mounting the loser and fucking him.
> 
> When it was finally done and the svelte, pretty youths had been taken away to be rewarded for their performance, the attendants swept the ring and Louis turned with a smile to the slave. ‘Your turn.’
> 
> Startled, the slave stared. ‘You want me to fight?’
> 
> ‘I do.’
> 
> ‘These _boys_?’ he asked furiously, clearly thinking he’d defeat them. Which he would; these pets were no warriors.
> 
> Louis smiled more broadly. ‘Oh no. I have someone better for you.’ He indicated the side of the ring where Vandor had already taken his place.
> 
> An inkling of what Louis had planned dawned in the slave’s eyes. He clenched his fists, and turned to Louis, who ignored his protests and signaled to the guards. They clamped their hands on the slave and dragged him to the ring where they divested him of all clothes except his magic-stifling gloves.
> 
> Naked, he looked even more impressive. Louis couldn’t help running his eyes over his strong thighs, his pert arse, the rippling muscles of his back. But there was no desire in his gaze; instead he watched him with a calculating look, judging his chances of winning. However, even a strapping man like the slave resembled a willow in front of Vandor with his barrel-chested physique and his beefy arms.
> 
> The two men faced each other in the ring. Prince Louis said, a smile in his voice, ‘Let the fight begin.’

 

The next day, leaving the communal shower, Draco comes across Potter clutching a letter as he climbs the stairs. It’s clearly not good news; the letter’s crumpled as Potter holds it almost white-knuckled, and his expression when it falls on Draco is hard. Wounded and furious at the same time. Dark circles under his eyes betray a sleepless night.

‘Bad news?’ Draco asks.

Potter gazes at him coldly. ‘Looking for more ammunition for your “gift”?’

As if that’s going to happen again. ‘I take it you didn’t like it,’ Draco replies in the light tones of someone who’s about to lose his temper. ‘Were you not… distracted?’

Potter purses his lips. ‘That’s beside the point.’

‘That was the _whole point_ , Potter.’ Draco shouldn’t be giving Potter’s bad mood a target, but he can’t help it. ‘I promised I’d stop you from thinking of whatever’s bothering you. _I did_.’

Potter scoffs. ‘And here I was thinking you used the time to humiliate me.’

‘Because I didn’t fuck you, or let you suck me? Oh, how the tables have turned.’

Potter’s voice hardens. ‘I thought— After all these years…’ He comes up close to Draco, eyes narrowed and expression thunderous. ‘You just wanted payback, and you thought you found a clever way of getting it. Still the same ol’ bully.’

Potter’s accusations hurt because they’re true, which pisses Draco off. Fury roils in his stomach, hot as magma. ‘At least I’m not _lying_ to myself. Whereas _you_ …’

Potter returns Draco’s sneer with a glare. ‘You know _nothing_ about me.’

‘I know all I need to know.’

Potter laughs. It’s a mocking, infuriating thing. ‘You were always an arrogant bastard.’

It’s enough to make Draco hit the roof. ‘And you’re the biggest cockslut I’ve ever seen, and you don’t even fucking know it,’ he spits out, his face an inch from Potter’s.

This is how it had all started back then, after the trial. Draco hissing _Do you expect me to thank you now?_ , Potter saying _You’re_ free _to do whatever you want_ , furious words unspooling between them, Draco hauling him by the collar and then—

The memory erupts between them, mirrored in both sets of eyes. Draco blinks and his gaze falls on Potter’s mouth, who grabs him, hard, and presses his lips on Draco’s. Draco finds himself shoved against the wall next to one of Amy’s tasteful nude paintings, kissed in the same way people do battle. Potter presses flush against him, digs his fingers in Draco’s hips and doesn’t seem to mind Draco clawing his back. It’s a kiss like punishment, furious and desperate, a mess of lips and tongue and teeth. Potter rubs what is a fast growing erection against Draco’s thigh, who lets out a moan and grinds harder, seeking urgent friction. He’s impossibly aroused already, overwhelmed by Potter’s searing touch and musky scent and the four-year-old late kiss. It goes on for what seems like hours, the urgency softening to something slow and inquisitive.

‘ _Fuck_.’ Draco pulls away first this time. His ire has evaporated, burned off in the blistering kiss. All that’s left is desire—and regret.

Potter, flushed and breathless, draws back enough to separate their heated bodies. The letter he was clutching is on the floor. Glasses askew, his eyes shine with lust and hurt and a whole lot of other emotions. He’s unbearably beautiful, and he’s leaving tomorrow.

Looking somewhere in the vicinity of Draco’s shoulder, Potter murmurs, ‘I thought about that fight—that kiss—a lot, you know. When I was alone. In the dark. I thought about it— _you_ ,’ he corrects, meeting Draco’s eyes, ‘and for a long time I hated you for what you had shown me.’

‘I know.’ Draco hated him too. He hates him again for coming here and resurrecting what was, if not dead, then well and properly buried. He hates him, because Potter will return to his life, leaving behind ruins. Fisting Potter’s T-shirt, Draco can’t stop the words from coming out, whispered like a plea. ‘You make me want to hurt you.’

Potter doesn’t flinch. ‘I know.’

Draco moves aside and heads to his room. He pauses at the door, turns and meets Potter’s eyes. ‘I wish you’d never come here.’

  

> **The Gift**
> 
> Chapter Three (cont.)
> 
> To Louis’s dismay, the slave won the fight. Then, to his even bigger surprise, the man refused to enjoy the spoils, despite knowing that had he lost, his own rape—nothing _mock_ about that—would have been cheered on by everyone in the audience.
> 
> ‘You shouldn’t have knocked him unconscious,’ tutted Craion, a Council man, addressing the slave who crouched at Louis’s feet after a pretense of fealty.  ‘How about you take my boy?’ He pointed at his pet, a youth of fourteen, slim and ethereal, fragile as a bloom in snow, his expression torn between his terror of the slave and his desire to perform for the Prince.
> 
> Louis watched the proceedings with some interest. The slave would surely jump at the chance for some petty revenge of his harsh treatment by rough-fucking this boy. He’d insult this court by fucking one of theirs and do it with the court’s blessing.
> 
> However, the slave refused _again_. The look he gave to Louis brimmed with contempt and disgust. ‘I’m not going to fuck a child for your entertainment.’
> 
> The pet, insulted, jutted his chin high. ‘I’m not a child. I’ve been in this court for two years now.’
> 
> The murderer of Louis’s brother looked sickened. Uncertainty flickered inside Louis. Surely the slave didn’t see the boy as a _threat_.
> 
> ‘Why not?’ Louis asked, perplexed. ‘The boy will spread for you.’
> 
> ‘ _Why not?!_ _Because I’m not a Lumondian coward who enjoys taking advantage of those weaker than myself_ ,’ the slave hissed.
> 
> Luckily for the slave, he said it in his own language, which meant only Louis caught the offence. Troubling thoughts stormed inside him, his silence stretching until he realised the other courtiers’ eyes were on him, waiting for a translation, an explanation or a decision. ‘My slave won’t be performing,’ he told Craion and, in effect, the assembled audience. ‘No one wants to see an Elvairon scum prevail in that way over a Lumondian. Least of all me.’ Turning to a servant, he said, ‘Bring my horse to the North courtyard. I’m going for a ride.’
> 
> He needed to _think_.

 

‘Is this the sexy story you’re writing?’ Amy asks over his shoulder, making Draco jump.

‘Can you not creep up behind me, please?’ Draco asks her.

‘You shouldn’t be writing in the kitchen then, where I do all my _creeping_.’

Draco pushes his chair back a little, allowing her more room. ‘I don’t think this is going to have any sex in it. It’s more of a revenge story.’

Absent-minded, she says, ‘Revenge stories have the _best_ sex.’ She reads to the end of the page and huffs. ‘How on earth is this prince not aware of how wrong it is to turn rape into a spectacle?’

‘It’s simulated rape. Not real.’

‘Still.’

Draco shrugs. ‘That’s all he’s ever known.’ He gazes at the drizzle falling softly in the garden. ‘People don’t question their upbringing or the values they’ve been taught: what’s right, what’s proper, what’s wrong and forbidden. We take these things as gospel until confronted with the reality that they’re not absolute or shared by everyone. And when the values are… questionable—’ He looks at his hands. ‘The confrontation can be painful.’

‘I see.’ Amy throws open the window, letting the scent of rain and grass filter in. A swish of her wand turns the wireless on. ‘I think this book will be your Dunkirk.’

He scoffs. ‘A massive defeat that leads to a hasty evacuation?’

‘First of, Dunkirk was a success. We got the troops out.’ She sits on the table beside his papers. ‘I meant that you think this is some silly story, or a slavefic that I’m desperately hoping will turn into a kinky smut-athon, but you’re pouring your soul into it, and it has depth that you probably hadn’t anticipated. A lot of the themes you want to explore in your Dunkirk story crop up here.’

This bothers Draco. ‘But I want to finish the Dunkirk book. I want—’ He longs to write a book that’ll bring him the recognition he craves. Not money—he’s got enough of that—but he wants people to know he has done something good with his life. Something that was worth his being saved from the fire and the prison.

He wants to point at something and say, _Here. This is what I was put in this world for._ Which is why that something has to be smart and deep and poignant and beautiful, to resonate and to move, to inspire and to instruct. He doubts a Prince’s desire to take revenge on his rival is any of that.

‘You will finish it,’ Amy says. ‘Look, most writers keep banging on about the same few themes. It’s not a bad thing; we all have something eating us inside and we put it on paper, again and again, until it stops gnawing at us. This novel is like a practice run.’

Draco gazes at the parchment, while Amy heads to the icebox to prepare some lunch, humming while doing it. He sees what she means: war is at the core of both stories. So is survival and vengeance and the desire to prevail over your enemy. In fact, writing this tale has offered some insights into his former work. In the Dunkirk story, the antagonist is not a person but war itself, a concept vague and elusive and hard to pin down. Draco needs to create a character to embody it, someone for Jérôme, his main character, to fight against, the way he came up with Vallerand.

Draco files one more idea at the back of his head: to create one more character, this time to represent hope.

‘Draco?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You were miles away,’ Amy says. ‘I was saying that the Auror group has left.’

Cold numbness spreads inside him. ‘Good riddance.’

She slides a plate with a ham sandwich towards him. ‘Except Harry.’

Draco raises his head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I hope you won’t go into a strop again, but he’s booked the room for two more weeks, possibly longer. He’s long-term now, so I can’t move him downstairs.’

Draco stares at her. ‘What about his work?’

‘What about it? Lots of people commute to London.’ She gives him a cautious look. ‘This won’t be a problem for you, will it?’

Judging by the way Draco’s heart beats faster, it’s already a problem.

 

Draco’s too antsy to focus on writing for the rest of the day and too restless to stay shut in his garret, so he paces the garden, loiters in the kitchen, and hangs out with Amy at the reception until she tells him to bugger off and leave her to work.

He heads to their local down the street. The magical district of Brighton is the Plains, a bustling, trendy, artistic quarter accessible from the back of a vegan café at the Lanes, but Draco’s not in the mood for anything that reminds him of home. It’s one of the reasons he’d chosen Amy’s guesthouse six months ago. Situated at the seafront, the magical guesthouse nestles against Muggle ones, offering some isolation from the magical community as well as stunning sea views.

The pub’s rowdy with the football on. Groups of lads chatter loudly, spill beer and guffaw while twenty-two fit men on the screen chase a small ball, a ludicrous game if Draco has ever seen one. He pays for his pint and glances around to find an empty stand when a familiar figure by the window catches his eye.

_Bugger._

Potter sees him. Even worse, he approaches Draco at the bar. ‘Didn’t know you liked football.’

‘I don’t.’ Draco stares at the screen nonetheless to avoid looking at Potter. His beer tastes of nothing, all his attention is on the man next to him in jeans and a black Scissor Sisters T-shirt. ‘Heard you’re staying.’

‘You heard right.’

‘Can’t get enough of me?’ Draco’s voice is dripping in mockery, but his heart is fluttering.

Potter sips his ale. Sets the glass down. Says, ‘I haven’t had you to begin with.’

Draco could hit him. ‘Stop… flirting. Or whatever it is you think you’re doing.’

‘Merely an observation,’ Potter says. He gestures towards the pub garden. The drizzle has stopped but it’s still overcast. ‘Want to grab a seat outside? It’s a bit wet but quieter than here.’

‘Sure.’ Draco has accepted that he has to see this to the end. Whatever _this_ is; a tangle of their traumatic past, their mistakes, their attraction, everything creating a real fucking mess. But it’s too late for Draco to pretend he’s not invested. If it means having a drink with Potter or sharing the top floor of the guesthouse with him or—or _whatever_ , Draco is going to see this through.

He follows Potter to the pub garden, a narrow space with half a dozen tables under umbrellas where people have finished their Sunday lunches and moved smoothly into daytime drinking. They find seats at the end of a long table, sharing it with what looks like a group on a hen do. The girls check both of them out over a table littered with Bacardi Breezers, but Draco has eyes only for the man opposite him.

Potter seems arrested by a sight behind Draco and wears an intense but undecipherable expression. He seems wistful, ecstatic and in pain at the same time. Turning his head, Draco sees a couple with a baby girl. The father holds the infant in his arms, talking to her, making her gurgle with laughter.

Bemused, he turns towards Potter when Draco’s pint glass explodes.

‘What the—?’

‘Shit!’ Potter stands, horrified. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ll get you another.’ He almost drags out his wand out but remembers where they are in time. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’

Draco shakes his head, still stunned. His fingers are wet, and he moves to the end of the bench to avoid the dripping beer. ‘I’ll get a napkin.’

‘I’ll get it. I’m sorry. And a pint. Carling?’ Potter hurries inside the pub, flustered.

‘You alright, love?’ one of the girls on their table asks Draco.

‘Yes, thanks.’ To their worried look, Draco reassures them, ‘I have a very firm grip.’

They shrug, go back to their chatting. Draco piles the larger glass pieces on the side. He has no idea how to explain what happened. Potter’s apologies seem to indicate _he_ caused the glass to break, but the only way he could have done that is with accidental magic, and Draco can’t see whatever for he’d be upset. Especially when they had a fight yesterday and Potter didn’t break any of Amy’s ornaments in their corridor then.

He turns back to look at the family, but they’re not anyone he knows. Just random Muggles. Perhaps it’s an orphan thing. Perhaps seeing happy families throws Potter off. If Draco was fifteen, he’d taunt Potter about missing his mummy. Now that he’s twenty-two and missing his own, self-exiled mother, he knows better than to joke about that.

Potter re-appears five minutes later with a bunch of serviettes and Draco’s drink. He wipes the table, gathers the broken pieces but they’re too many. ‘Oh, fuck it.’ Shooting a quick look around him, Potter twitches his wand; the glass pieces and the spilled beer disappear, leaving the table clean and dry.

‘You _are_ aware you’re an Auror, right?’ Draco asks, raising his fresh drink to his lips.

‘No one saw.’

‘I’ll let you deal with the Memory Charms.’ Draco examines Potter as he takes a seat. The constant worry is back in his eyes, and he seems to be breathing more carefully than normal. He’s got his eyes trained on his drink. Draco leans in. ‘What in Merlin’s name happened?’

Potter scowls. ‘Don’t want to talk about it.’

Right. ‘So, should we talk about football, Quidditch, any other inane topic to keep up the pretense?’ Draco asks. ‘Your choice.’

‘What pretense is that?’

‘That we like each other.’

Potter looks at his fingers, curling around his half-empty pint. ‘Who says I don’t like you?’

Draco scoffs. ‘Do you hear yourself?’

‘Depends on what your definition of “like” is.’

Draco’s rage, always a glimmer in his veins, begins to bubble. ‘It’s: not shoving someone away during a kiss. Not feeling revulsion because you touched them.’ Draco stares at the scuffed wood of the table, fists clenched, wondering how to tell Potter that his words had hurt because they’d come from _him_. The Saviour of their world, the person that was lauded for being _good_ —and he’d looked at Draco as if he was disgusted by him.

Potter frowns, the memory displeasing him. ‘I’ve come a long way since then.’

‘If I were you, I’d also check the definition of “long”.’

‘Wasn’t Friday night an indication?’

‘Is this a dick joke? You’re not _that_ big.’

Potter ignores him. ‘Draco—’

‘Oh dear, it’s first names—’

‘—I want another gift.’

Draco chokes on his beer. ‘Pardon?’

Laughter erupts from the girls beside them. The noise from the football match drifts from inside and the ambient chatter seems to have grown in volume as the day progresses. Potter finishes his pint and doesn’t look at Draco. When the silence drags too long, he finally raises his eyes. He’s flame-cheeked, embarrassed, but also determined. ‘Another hour.’

‘I thought you didn’t like it.’

‘I liked… parts of it. Most of it. Definitely not the ending.’ Draco squirms a little with guilt. Potter continues, ‘And it helped.’ He gives Draco a wry look. ‘I’m as astonished by that as you are.’

Draco wants it as much as he fears it. ‘There are other people who can… distract you, Potter.’

Unfortunately, Potter won’t let Draco run from this. He locks his eyes with Draco’s. ‘I want it to be _you_.’

Always fucking stubborn. Draco asks, because someone has to say it out loud, ‘Do you even _trust_ me after—after last time?’

Potter seems to give it serious thought. ‘I guess,’ he says in the end, ‘I’m hoping you got your revenge out of your system.’

The girls of the hen do gather their things to leave. They’ve trains to catch and weddings to plan. Snatches of a football anthem echo from inside the pub.

Full of misgivings but also a terrible yearning, Draco murmurs, ‘Nine o’ clock. The bathroom.’

Potter’s shoulders drop in evident relief. He stretches his legs under the table and gazes at Draco. ‘So, what about them Bristol Buzzards?’

They keep up the pretense well into the evening, until Draco’s not sure whether it’s pretense anymore.

 

At nine, Potter enters the bathroom. The Scissor Sisters T-shirt he’s wearing hugs him in all the right places and he’s barefoot. Draco is sitting on the edge of the tub, legs crossed. He flicks a casual glance at Potter and checks his watch. ‘Your hour starts now.’

Potter stands in the middle of the room, face lit in tense anticipation. The worry he’d sported in the pub is gone.

Draco stands too. He waits a beat, eyes locked with Potter’s, and says, ‘Undress me.’

The air assumes a crystal sharp quality, a vibration that resonates in Potter’s hungry eyes. Draco stays still, smelling Potter’s spicy aftershave as he pads closer and takes the buttons of Draco’s shirt into his hands. Ardent fingers expose Draco’s skin, and Potter’s gaze is a hot caress that makes Draco shiver. It’s the sleeves next: Potter steps to the side, uncuffs one sleeve, slides it slowly off, then the other. Draco does nothing to help.

Potter returns in front of him and unbuckles Draco’s belt. His movements are luxurious, his fingertips touching Draco now and then. The belt comes off with a hiss that echoes loudly in the quiet space. Draco’s wand is in his back pocket and Potter handles it with care. He leaves wand and belt next to the pile of clothing. His hands tremble when he unzips Draco’s jeans, and he pauses, exhales and starts again. A blush on his face, his eyes fervent, his own jeans tenting: Potter’s body betrays his lust. Draco instead holds everything back; the onslaught that’s happening inside him could bury him if he lets it out. So he doesn’t; he controls his face, his movements, his mouth until the only dissonance is his erratic, too-loud heartbeat.

Potter crouches and pulls Draco’s jeans down to his thighs, bringing his face close to Draco’s crotch. The temptation to ask for what they both want floods Draco. He sinks his nails into his palms.

Potter doesn’t help matters. ‘You were right the other day, you know.’ He licks his lips, eyes on the bulge.

Draco’s not sure what he means, but he knows he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s not going to happen, not tonight. Not _ever_ , if he wants to come out of this situation relatively unscathed. ‘Shut up.’

There’s defiance in Potter’s eyes, but he bends his head and gets on with his task. He cradles Draco’s feet to remove the trouser legs. He gets bolder, trails his fingers down Draco’s calf, and touches the back of his knees with a feather-light touch. Draco lets him.

One thing left. Draco’s heart is beating a fast tattoo on his ribs, but his voice comes out frosty. ‘Get on with it.’

Potter’s on his knees in front of him. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of Draco’s boxers and slowly drags them down, Draco’s cock bouncing free. After depositing the boxers on the clothing pile, Potter’s eyes roam all over his body with appreciation, taking in Draco’s chest, his stomach, the golden curls around his cock, the cock itself. His eyes darken and he looks up at Draco, smouldering with desire. ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘I said, _shut up_ ,’ Draco says, voice hoarse. He tries to hide the tremor in his hands as he stands there stark naked. It’s the reverse situation to last time, an attempt to bring them to an equal footing of sorts, by exposing himself now to Potter’s greedy gaze.

Potter stands and leans close, whispering against Draco’s cheek. ‘What’s next?’

Draco steps into the bathtub and turns the shower on. ‘Attend me.’

When Potter makes to take his T-shirt off, Draco stops him with a smirk. ‘I said nothing about _you_ undressing. You can take your glasses off, nothing else.’

Potter’s T-shirt gets soaked in seconds after he joins Draco under the spray.  Draco turns his back to him and shuts his eyes when Potter soaps his shoulders with Draco’s bergamot-scented soap. Potter’s hands travel down his back in soothing strokes and wide circles. The bergamot scent wafts in the room, which fills with steam, fogging the windows and the mirror.

‘I’ve fantasised about this,’ Potter says.

‘Washing me like a slave?’

The strokes reach lower, hugging the curve of Draco’s arse. Draco splays his hand on the tiles for support.

‘Like a lover,’ Potter says.

‘ _Don’t_.’

The soapy hands cup his arse, kneading it gently, before the washcloth slides inside Draco’s cleft. A gasp escapes Draco, and he can _feel_ Potter smiling behind him.

‘I knew I’d get a reaction out of you.’

‘Keep running your mouth and I’ll have you gagged.’

‘Kinky.’

But Potter doesn’t say anything more. He continues his kneading of Draco’s arse, swiping between his legs to his balls. Draco can’t suppress the shudder that runs through him or the low moan that escapes his lips. Emboldened, Potter presses closer, the heat of his chest against Draco’s back, rubbing his cleft with slow precision. His hand is insistent against Draco’s hole, probing but not entering, a teasing little slide that has Draco aroused beyond imagination. It’s _good_ —maddeningly good, and it’s _Potter,_ a comet that has come from the past to light up Draco’s present, and which will disappear just as suddenly, leaving Draco behind in the darkness. Draco’s already compromised; he won’t forget any of this, ever.

Now, though, he’ll take what pleasure he can, so his posture softens, and he leans back until he can feel the wet cotton on his skin and Potter’s breath on his shoulder. His slick hands circle Draco’s waist, pausing on his stomach.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve gone shy now,’ Draco rasps.

Potter doesn’t hesitate and wraps his fingers around Draco’s cock. They both gasp then, Draco feeling the echo of his shudder through Potter’s T-shirt. Potter washes his balls with care; he strokes the shaft with soapy hands, making it twitch and harden in his grasp. He takes his time with Draco’s foreskin, tugging it over the crown. Occasionally his hand strays to tease Draco’s balls or a nipple and back again. Something coarse presses on Draco’s arse: Potter’s wet jeans. Draco’s enveloped by spray, bergamot suds and Potter, and if it isn’t exactly what he had in mind for tonight, he finds he lacks the energy to care. Not when Potter’s fingers are so cleverly coaxing his arousal out of him.

‘I’ve also fantasised about this,’ Potter whispers in his ear. His hair tickles Draco’s cheek. ‘Stroking your cock, seeing you like this. Hearing you whimper. Naked.’ Potter punctuates his words with harder tugs. ‘Wet. Aroused. _Beautiful_.’

‘I said, _don’t_.’ But it comes out weak, needy, a testament to how gone Draco is. He leans his head back on Potter’s shoulder. His arousal is spreading like a forest fire, leaving behind cinders. ‘Make me come.’ He’s not sure if he’s said it loud enough to be heard over the running water, but he hears a growl in response. Perhaps he has.

Potter hauls him tight against him, his hips grinding against Draco’s arse, the jeans chafing the sensitive skin. But Potter’s hand draws all of Draco’s attention, fisting Draco’s cock with urgency. His breathing is harsh on Draco’s ear, and he murmurs encouragements, things like, ‘Merlin, look at you,’ or ‘God, you feel good.’ Draco’s orgasm, building steadily all this time, reaches a crescendo; his cock _aches_ with the force of it, flushed red and rock hard, and he comes all over Potter’s fist with a cry. Potter milks the last of his spunk out of him and holds him tight, his lips on Draco’s shoulder, touching but not kissing. They don’t speak for some time. The warm water sluices down, erasing the evidence of Draco’s desire.

Potter nuzzles Draco’s hair, still holding him. ‘I like this. Touching you.’ His nails dig deep in Draco’s skin. ‘I like—’

Draco ends his sentence for him. ‘Men. You like men.’

A snort. ‘ _Obviously_.’ Then, softer: ‘I like _you_.’ And then, whispered: ‘I want to kiss you.’

Draco tenses. Angry against-the-wall kissing is one thing but snogging under the warm water like sweethearts is quite another. He disentangles himself from Potter’s embrace and steps out of the bathtub. ‘Your hour’s up.’

‘What’s got into you?’

Draco glares at him. ‘What we do—this… thing, this _game_ — There’s no room for sentimentality. We’re not lovebirds, Potter. We’re just getting each other off.’

The amorous mood of the moment before evaporates. Potter turns the shower off. His T-shirt sticks on him, his hair is plastered on his head. Draco doesn’t know if he came. He doesn’t care. What he cares about is ensuring the ache in his chest—that ache that won’t be satisfied until Potter is his, only his, forever—doesn’t consume him.

Potter steps out of the shower, dripping on the mat. He brushes his hair off his face, his famous scar stark on his forehead. ‘I didn’t know kissing was only for _lovebirds_.’

‘There’s clearly so much you don’t know.’ Draco takes refuge in disdain.

Potter stalks closer. Draco’s legs seem not to be working all of a sudden. He lets himself be pushed against the door, Potter’s wet clothes dripping on his feet, his breath playing on Draco’s lips. ‘Is this so bad?’ Potter leans in and leaves a soft kiss on Draco’s lips.

Draco shuts his eyes. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and it terrifies him. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you want me to stop?’

Draco’s heart is fluttering wildly against his ribs. ‘No,’ he whispers.

Potter kisses him again, the same careful brush of lips on lips. Once. Twice.

‘There,’ Potter says. ‘Every gift should be accepted with a kiss.’


	4. Chapter 4

 

> **The Gift**
> 
> Chapter Four
> 
>  
> 
> ‘The slave requests an audience, Your Highness,’ said Louis’s Steward.
> 
> Louis nodded and dismissed him with a flick of his fingers. He was heading to a state banquet for the entertainment of the Thebean ambassador and their delegation. The treaty with Elvairon had opened the road to talks of a new trade agreement between other countries in the region.
> 
> His slave’s demand didn’t leave his mind once during the dinner. Making polite conversation, talking to the state officials, being courteous, witty, and at the same time extracting careful information came to Louis with ease, but it was harder to attend to others when a part of his mind revolved around the question: what did the slave _want_?
> 
> When the interminable dinner was over, he headed straight to the slave’s room and stood over his cot.
> 
> The man looked peaceful in sleep, and Louis let himself really look at him. His muscles, his olive skin, darker on the arms and the neck where the sun had seen it, his messy curls. Louis could never forget that under that seemingly innocent façade was Auguste’s murderer, the man Louis had sworn he’d kill one day.
> 
> The man awoke and gazed at Louis, eyes bleary. When he realised who his visitor was, he rose and, to Louis’s shock, he knelt and bowed his head low.
> 
> Well. Louis hadn’t seen _that_ coming. ‘This is new.’
> 
> ‘I want something.’
> 
> Of course. Louis would laugh if he weren’t so exhausted. ‘You want something. From me. Why would I indulge the whims of a slave?’
> 
> The slave raised his head to address Louis. No slave, or even commoner, would be so bold with a prince. The slave behaved so un-slave-like it was a miracle no one in the palace hadn’t questioned if he might, indeed, be a noble. A miracle—or a testament to the courtiers’ intelligence.
> 
> ‘You get something in return,’ the slave said.
> 
> This time Louis laughed. ‘Do you imagine you have _anything_ I want?’
> 
> ‘My obedience.’
> 
> Louis paused, intrigued. He had long hated Max and wanted him dead; if he could cast a Kedavra right now, he would. He yearned for his revenge, a fire burning bright within him for years. But this suggestion held his interest—for now at least. ‘And in return I relax the security around you? Is that it? Do you even _dream_ that—’
> 
> ‘That’s not what I want.’
> 
> Louis stared. ‘What _do_ you want?’
> 
> ‘The other slaves are in the Regent’s household, and they’re being harmed. They’re—they’re not like me.’ _Of course they aren’t_ , Louis thought. _They weren’t brought up as the heirs of kingdom_ s.
> 
> The slave is saying, ‘I want them safe. I was hoping you could speak to the Regent, arrange for better treatment.’
> 
> It was not what Louis had expected. He’d expected the slave to trick him into gaining some degree of freedom, after which he’d attempt to flee to his country and regain his throne, and possibly erase Lumonde from the map for the way Louis treated him.
> 
> Perhaps this was another trick. ‘How do you even know about the slaves’ treatment?’ Louis asked, full of suspicion.

 

Draco pauses, his quill hovering over the parchment. He’d planned to use the other slaves as an example of the conditions in the depraved court of Lumonde under the Regent, the place that Louis had to survive in, but it hadn’t occurred to him until now that Max would be interested in their safety. Max, in fact, would give everything to make them safe, and since his freedom wasn’t his to give anymore, he offered the one thing he had: obedience.

Draco stretches and decides to ponder this new development before he continues tomorrow. He’s a little stunned at how well the book is progressing. Twenty thousand words in ten days is a marvel compared to the paltry nine thousand words he wrote last _month_ , half of which he’d ended up deleting.

He strolls down to the lounge where Amy is showing a couple of backpackers the guesthouse’s books they can borrow, an eclectic mix of epic fantasy, literary fiction and smutty romance. ‘Oh, this one is brilliant!’ she tells the guy, who picked up a novel to check out. ‘It’s about a witch who can’t come unless her partner eats her the _right_ way, so she travels all over the earth, for _years_ , has sex with _innumerable_ partners—I mean, she gets fucked a _lot_ —to find someone to make her come! You’ll love it! You’re a traveler too!’

Draco stifles a laugh at the alarmed look the boy gives her, while the girl with him drags the book from his hand and examines it closely.

The kitchen smells of someone else’s pasta bolognese—burned—and vinegar. Draco grabs a packet of instant noodles (“ _Takes one spell and three minutes only_!!!” reads the back) and casts a quick Aguamenti in a chipped bowl. Amy follows him.

‘Darling, I’ve got to show these kids the After Hours Service spell and give them some maps and stuff, but before I forget: clubbing on Friday night?’

‘Sure thing,’ Draco says.

‘Do you think I should invite this Australian couple to come with us?’

‘No.’

‘OK, I will. Brighton’s famous for the gay clubs. When in Rome and all that.’

Draco sighs. ‘They’re like, _eighteen_.’

‘And you’re twenty-two, and I’m twenty-nine, and Mrs Norton next door is fifty-five. Is there a reason we’re talking about our ages?’

‘Go away,’ Draco tells her, irritated. She won’t allow him to be even a tiny bit of a bigot, even with ages. ‘Shoo.’

Amy pauses at the archway and gazes at him, eyes wide, all innocence. ‘Will you ask Harry to come along?’

Draco busies himself in the cutlery drawer. ‘You can ask him yourself.’

‘I think he’ll appreciate it coming from you.’

Draco doesn’t reply. He sits at the table with his noodles and proceeds to ignore her. It’s not easy; he can feel her eyes boring into him.

‘Is there a reason you’re still standing there?’ he asks her.

‘Yes, there is.’ She sits opposite Draco and lowers her voice. ‘Something’s going on between you two, and I want to know what.’ To Draco’s incredulous look, she adds, ‘Oh come on! I’ve seen the way you look at each other.’

‘Your guests are waiting for you,’ Draco reminds her in chilly tones.

She rises. ‘Don’t think you can escape me this easily. I’ll be back.’

 _And I’ll be in my room_ , Draco thinks, but before he has the chance to flee, Potter enters the kitchen carrying a bag of groceries and wearing a troubled expression.

‘Hey,’ Potter says, his face brightening when he sees Draco, which tugs at Draco’s heart in all the right and painful ways.

‘Working late?’ Draco nods at the Floo ash dusting Potter’s robes. He must have just come in.

‘No.’ Potter’s expression reverts to gloom. ‘I had to meet someone after.’

Draco deposits his empty bowl in the sink and watches as Potter takes out his groceries and Summons some pots and pans from the cupboards. ‘I take it the meeting didn’t go well.’

A crease appears between Potter’s brows, and he purses his lips. ‘You could say that.’ He’s not forthcoming about what’s troubling him, and it drives Draco mad because he fervently wants to know. Whatever the problem is doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the past. No, it’s as if Potter’s being haunted by the future, and Draco doesn’t know what to make of it.

‘You’re surprisingly reticent.’ Draco leans on the counter. The smell of chopped garlic and onion fills the kitchen. ‘Fear I might tell the papers?’

Potter’s gaze is focused on his chopping. ‘I trust you won’t tell the _Prophet_. I don’t trust you won’t be a dick about it.’

‘Being a dick is all I can do well, Potter. You should know that by now.’

Potter chuckles without much humour. ‘I do know.’ He shoots a side-glance at Draco, eyes bright. ‘I don’t always mind.’

Warmth gathers in Draco’s chest—and somewhere lower. Something on Draco’s face apparently pleases Potter; he turns to his cooking with a small smile. Draco hopes to God he wasn’t blushing. He settles his face into indifference and changes the topic. ‘What are you making?’

There are three things going on right now on the cooker; Draco’s impressed. Not that he’d share that sentiment with Potter; he’s got a big head already. Pasta boils in a pot, a wooden spoon stirs the onion in the pan as it turns golden while Potter adds tomato sauce. A heavenly Mediterranean aroma wafts from the cooker.

‘Tuna pasta bake,’ Potter replies. ‘Want some? Have you had dinner?’

‘If you can call instant noodles _dinner_. Want a hand?’ Draco is glad Amy isn’t around; she’d have a field day with that last one.

‘I’d love a hand.’ Potter winks at Draco.

‘You’re hanging out with Amy too much,’ Draco says, exasperated. ‘She’ll corrupt you, you’ll see.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

 _Because that’s_ my _job_. Draco doesn’t say it aloud, but Potter’s darkened gaze suggests he doesn’t need to.

Since the bathroom incident—the _new_ bathroom incident—their fraught and tentative interactions have turned quite… domestic. Potter might not have been around much when the conference was on—all those meetings followed by visits to the famous landmarks and the restaurants-du-jour—but now he seems to be under Draco’s feet all the fucking time. Signs of Potter are everywhere Draco looks, turning him into an omnipresent god that Draco can’t escape from. He smells Potter in the shower steam; the orange blossom scent of his hair potion wafts down the corridor of their floor when the door is left ajar after Potter’s gone to work. Even worse, sometimes Draco sniffs at Potter’s hair products, letting the now familiar scent inhabit his lungs. Potter’s toothbrush nestles against Draco’s, his razor is left wet on the sink they both use. Potter listens to the wireless downstairs in the evenings, lost in thoughts he doesn’t want to share. In the mornings, he stumbles in the corridor in his boxers, eyes bleary, heading for a piss. Once, Draco found him sitting on the stairs in the middle of the night, his shoulders hunched over his knees, and the only word he could get out of him was ‘Nightmare’. Potter—the man Draco has hated, desired, resented, fantasised about—has turned from an earth-shattering presence into someone who slips into Draco’s mundane life as if he’s always been there. As if he _belongs_ there, by Draco’s side, sharing bathrooms and kitchens and silent nights on the stairs.

But they haven’t touched since. Draco doesn’t dare suggest it and Potter hasn’t asked again.

‘That’s not enough salt,’ Potter tells Draco now.

‘It’s more than enough,’ Draco says, who pushes the salt out of reach.

Potter leans over Draco to grab it, and Draco pushes it further away. When Potter takes out his wand, Draco pulls out his; Potter’s faster in _Accio_ ing the salt, but Draco intercepts it in mid-air. He lets out a whoop at the catch and shoves it inside his jeans pocket, laughing openly now.

Potter, smile wide on his face, raises an eyebrow. ‘Think I’ll hesitate to get in there?’

‘I wanna see you try.’

Potter lunges, feints and reaches for Draco’s side. Draco slithers through the embrace, squirms and curls protectively over the protruding pocket. Potter wraps his arms around him, his front tight on Draco’s back, and attacks Draco’s pocket. Draco twists his hands out of the way, but Potter won’t give up the attempt. The fight’s childish and ridiculous, they’re both laughing, but then Draco feels an edge in the way Potter holds him that takes this from play-fighting to something else entirely. He’s almost certain Potter’s lips touched his neck and he’s about to turn and maybe meet those lips, when Potter says, ‘Hey, Amy!’

He straightens, pushing his hair off his face, and Draco turns to see her leaning in the archway, arms crossed over her green dress and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. ‘Having fun, boys?’

‘We’re cooking,’ Draco says coldly, and passes the salt shaker to Potter.

Amy still twinkles. It’s infuriating. ‘I see.’ She loads the words with heavy meaning, bringing heat to Draco’s cheeks. ‘Carry on. Don’t let me stop you.’ Her voice is perfectly casual, but before she leaves, she wiggles her eyebrows to Draco in an _I knew it_ kind of way.

‘I’ve got to warn you,’ Draco says a few moments later as Potter adds bits of tuna in the sauce. ‘Amy’s going to ask you to a club night.’

‘Why is it a warning?’

Draco shrugs. ‘She’s very insistent. Won’t take no for an answer.’

‘Will you go?’

‘It’s a gay club.’

‘Is that a yes?’ Potter stirs the sauce and turns the heat off. He pours the mixture in a baking tray over the pasta. ‘Pass me the cheese, please?’

Draco watches him wordlessly for a moment. The idea of Potter in a nightclub wakes all sort of desires in Draco. Muggle clubs might not feature the magical effects that wizarding ones do, but they offer something more valuable to Draco: anonymity. He often goes out with Amy and other friends to Brighton clubs. They stay until the early hours of the morning, and Draco always pulls. Sometimes he goes to their place, other times he fucks them in the loos or in the club’s dark room, where two men touching each other might become three, or four. He pictures Potter against the wall of a nightclub, cloaked in darkness and flashing neon lights, his jeans open to reveal a dark trail, and a tingle spreads in Draco’s veins.

They haven’t exchanged any personal information, and Draco is suddenly curious. ‘After that time at the Ministry, when did you—’

Potter understands what Draco’s asking. He slides the baking tray in the oven and shuts the door. ‘Took me a couple of years.’ He tidies the kitchen counter, not looking in Draco’s eyes but not avoiding his question either. ‘Ginny and I had broken up—again. I got drunk and told Ron I had these—fantasies. That I thought of—men. As well as women. That I liked both, equally. Next thing I know, he’s dragged me to a gay club in Muggle London.’

‘Weasley did?’ Draco asks, surprised. ‘He’s not— _Is he_?’

‘No.’ Potter becomes radiant when he speaks of his best friend. ‘He’s as straight as they come; but he’s very supportive, you know? It’s nerve-wracking, the first time in a gay club. He wanted to make sure I didn’t have to experience it alone, even if he didn’t share my proclivities. He’s—he’s good like that.’

‘Did you take anyone home?’

‘Not for some time.’ Potter absently plays with the cheese grater. ‘I kept hearing my uncle’s voice in my head. ‘Perverts,’ he used to say. ‘Shirt-lifters’. ‘Dirty faggots.’ I’ve no respect for him, I don’t care what he says, I _shouldn’t_ , and yet—’

He doesn’t continue; not that he needs to. Draco isn’t a stranger to the sting of shame.

‘If my father finds out I’m gay, he’ll disown me.’ Draco feels the throbbing in his veins, the familiar simmer of rage under his skin. ‘Maybe not anymore,’ he adds to forestall Potter’s pity. ‘After the Dark Lord, he’s… broken. Frail. Not many friends. He might want to keep me around.’ Bitterness drips from his voice, and he swallows, unwilling to say anything more.

Silence unfolds; the soft whirring of the oven bridges the space between them as the food they prepared together turns golden brown.

 

 

> **The Gift**
> 
> Chapter Five
> 
>  
> 
> ‘What changed your mind?’ asked the slave.
> 
> Louis stared at him. He’d spent the last day following up on the slave’s claims that his compatriots were being mistreated. Unfortunately, the claims turned out to be true. The prized slaves of Elvairon, trained to submit and obey and anticipate their Masters’ whims, had fared badly in Louis’s court, where the Regent had given rein to the most vicious and the most predatory of behaviours in his courtiers. Louis also found the boy Max had mentioned; a dark blond youth who, trembling, narrated his rape by Vandor in the gardens. It was him more than anything that had made up Louis’s mind.
> 
> Not that Max needed to know that. ‘Don’t speak, unless you’re asked a question. Don’t contradict me. These are the rules, and if you break them, I’ll leave your fellow Elvairons to rot. Bring me the leash.’
> 
> The slave trailing behind him on his golden leash, bedecked in silks and with the barest paint on his face, Louis entered the hall where the Regent would conclude the trade negotiations with the Thebeans in a relaxed atmosphere. Whispers followed in their wake. The Prince with a pet: it was a first.
> 
> The slave turned out to be useful. A brute as he was, he smacked people’s hands off his body and scowled at those who made inappropriate remarks towards him. Hiding a smile, Louis discovered he enjoyed it. It allowed him to mingle without having to linger with a particular group of people; it also gave him a dark pleasure to see some of the most spoiled courtiers come face to face with someone who wouldn’t accept their impertinent advances without a fight.
> 
> Tyrell, the Thebean ambassador, had flirted shamelessly with Louis this afternoon when Louis engaged him in conversation, suggesting Tyrell ask for the slaves to be loaned to him as part of the trade agreement. Louis encouraged the flirting; he needed Tyrell pliant and open to his proposal. Louis’s looks were a weapon, and he was determined to use all of his assets to get his way.
> 
> ‘My uncle is delayed. Let us move to the balcony,’ he told Tyrell, ‘until he arrives.’
> 
> Dusk had fallen and a few stars winked in the inky sky. The smell of jasmine drifted in the air as they sat on a stone bench, the glittering city spread below them. The slave stood against the wall, his habitual, mistrustful  scowl on his face.
> 
> Louis felt surprisingly magnanimous. Perhaps he could reward the slave for being so helpfully brutish, while at the same time torture him in a new way. Offer him a present; but with a sting. ‘Any news from Elvairon?’ he asked Tyrell. ‘I’ve heard there is unrest after the new king’s coronation.’
> 
> The slave’s posture changed. Louis could sense his sharpened attention focused on the conversation. He continued smoothly, ‘Has the royal wedding taken place already?’
> 
> ‘No, but it has to be soon,’ said Tyrell. ‘Before Lady Julianne starts showing.’

 

Friday night rolls around soon enough, and Draco descends the stairs to find everyone gathered in the lounge. His gaze slides indifferently over Amy’s mates—Ali, Cat, Shan, someone else Draco’s never seen before—and snags on Potter, who’s in conversation with the Australian couple. He looks sinfully good in a leather jacket and a white T-shirt that stretches tight across his chest. Draco’s dressed with care, rather more conservatively than he usually does, but he did indulge himself with a hint of eyeliner.

Potter glances at Draco and does a double take. His hooded gaze runs down Draco’s tight jeans and up his torso to linger on his face. Draco ignores him to talk to Ali because he can’t handle Potter looking at him that way without a drink or three inside him.

They are a merry group striding along Brighton beach, the sea breeze ruffling their hair and the girls’ skirts. Brighton city comes alive on Friday nights. Music spills from the bars they pass, people laugh on their way from one drink to another, while the surf thuds tirelessly against the shore, a reminder of how fleeting human life is.

Draco likes that last thought; he decides to use it in his Dunkirk story. He doesn’t know if it’s a writer thing—he should ask Amy—but at times he finds himself detached from what’s happening around him; an observer that notes and files away anything he might need in the future, a hoarder of sensations: the lights strung along Brighton beach, bright against the velvet skies, the way Cat’s skirt balloons in the stiff breeze, the marigold tucked in Shan’s hair, the overpowering smell of the ocean, the Australian couple’s accent. The flickering reflection of the new Brighton Pier on the water.

Potter’s smile, carefree. Almost.

There’s a queue outside the club. They wait, sneakily sipping from a gin bottle Amy had the foresight to stash in her purse. Inside, it’s the usual pandemonium: deafening music, sweaty dancers, spilled drinks. Men dance with men, women with women, and at the back someone is getting fondled. It’s heaven and hell on earth, one of Brighton’s legendary gay clubs, and Draco’s at the bar with Potter, while Amy and her lot dance and flirt like the world is going to end.

Potter says he’s not much of a dancer. Draco likes to dance, but it’s usually a prelude for pulling, and there’s no one here who interests him half as much as Potter. They find a table and sit, watching the goings-on and drinking Stellas. Potter leans in and speaks to Draco’s ear, and for once, Draco’s grateful for the loud music. ‘Do you come here often?’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘Seriously, Potter?’

Potter grins. ‘I wanted to know if this is one of your haunts, not trying to pull you.’

‘As if I’d go home with someone wearing trainers. At a club.’ They had to Confund the bouncers to let them in.

Gesturing to the dancefloor, Potter asks with a wicked smile, ‘Who’d you pick then?’

There’s only one answer, but Draco plays the game and scans the crowd. The club’s heaving with topless, sweaty men, many of them fit, but none that he’d pick normally. Except— the barman at the nearest bar perhaps. Mixed race, shaven head, muscles, a shockingly sweet smile.

He points him out at Potter, who examines him for a moment and then leans closer. His breath is hot on Draco’s skin. ‘What would you do if you went home with him?’

A shiver runs through Draco. He turns and brings his mouth to Potter’s ear. Closing his eyes, Draco imagines what he’d do if he had Potter in his arms instead. ‘I’d get him naked first. Slowly. I’d kiss every part of his body as it was revealed to me: his neck, his chest, his stomach, his groin. His thighs and his knees.’

Potter breathes hard, and Draco continues. ‘I’d throw him face down on the bed and kiss his back all the way down, and then, I’d spread him open and lick him.’

Lust is building steadily inside Draco. He opens his eyes to see Potter’s profile, lips parted and eyes half-closed. Potter wears an expression of bliss, and it spurs Draco on. ‘Have you ever been rimmed, Harry?’ His breath brushes Potter’s temple.

Potter makes a noise deep in his throat. He shakes his head.

‘It’s fantastic,’ Draco continues, his mouth on Potter’s ear. The familiar smell of the orange blossom shampoo tickles his nose. ‘It’s the best thing that someone can do to you, besides fuck you into the mattress. So that’s what I’d do to— to him. I’d spread him open—no, I’d ask him to spread _himself_ open, to present himself to me, and then I’d shove my tongue in his arse. I’d lap at it like a fucking kitten. I’d bite his cheeks and leave my mark on him. I’d drench him with my saliva and lick all his secret places until he shuddered below me, so lost that he wouldn’t remember his own name. I’d thrust my tongue as deep as it could get, again and again and again.’

Potter’s clenching his beer with white knuckles. His voice is hoarse. ‘And then?’

Draco noses Potter’s cheek, who gasps faintly. ‘And then, I’d put my cock inside him. I’d take him hard; a pretty man like him needs to be taken hard, I think. I’d push his head down on the mattress and fuck him until he begged me to let him come.’

Potter swallows. Draco asks, ‘Have you been buggered, Harry?’

He shakes his head, his hair brushing Draco’s face. No.

An aching want erupts inside Draco, roiling like liquid fire. His hand settles on Potter’s thigh, inching towards the tent in his trousers.

Potter spreads his thighs a bit wider, welcoming Draco’s questing fingers. ‘Why wouldn’t you let him come?’ he asks faintly.

Draco smiles against Potter’s skin. ‘Because I want his pleasure to be my decision.’

Potter whimpers; he actually _whimpers_. He looks so fucking delicious like this, red-faced and evidently aroused, struggling to accept his desires but also fiercely craving them. Draco wants to do all of these things—and more—to Potter. He’s got so many questions, he doesn’t know where to start. For instance, has Potter ever used toys?  Draco has an anal hook that has Potter’s name all over it. He wants to know if Potter would object to blindfolds, to being tied up; he wants to be the first to fuck Potter up the arse; he wants to use the whole fucking Kama Sutra on him.

He pulls back and gulps his beer in an attempt to calm his furious urges. Sweat has gathered on his back and he exhales, loosening his shoulders. Potter’s still clutching his drink like a lifeline. Draco stifles a secret, pleased smile, knowing he can affect Potter like this with a few well-chosen words. Not that _he_ ’s not affected. Merlin, the images crowding in his brain—Potter on his front, naked, arse in the air—are maddening. It takes a lot of effort not to jump on the man right now, not to let his hand resume its inexorable path towards Potter’s groin.

But the night is young, and so are they. Draco can torment Potter all night with his words if he wishes. For now, he gives Potter some breathing space, acts all casual and answers the question he was asked ten minutes ago. ‘I’m not a regular here, no. There’s another club I visit more often, which is mainly for men.’ He takes a sip and assumes a bored tone. As if it’s no big deal. ‘I could take you there next week.’

Potter looks up, his expression shifting from eager to guarded. He tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite work. ‘If I’m still here.’

And, just like that, reality crashes in, sucking the air from Draco’s lungs. What the fuck is Draco thinking, playing boyfriends with Potter? Potter’s got a life and friends and a house in London, where his work also is. There’s nothing keeping him in Brighton besides— Well, Draco hasn’t got the foggiest why he’s still here, but it won’t be for long. It’s summer. This is Brighton, with the beach and the festivals and the nightlife. No wonder Potter’s decided to spend a few weeks here. He’s on a fucking holiday.

Meanwhile, Draco’s falling for him and his cooking and his stupid eyes.

He sits back, his heart thundering, staring in the middle distance. He’s furious with Potter, although it’s not his fault. He’s furious with himself, although he’s not sure how he could have prevented it. He’s simply and thoroughly _furious_ , and it doesn’t help that he still wants to do all those things to Potter, he still wants to see him blissed out, orgasmic, lost. His fists clench on his thighs.

‘Something wrong?’ Potter asks.

Draco realises he’s been glaring at strangers. With some effort, he shoves all emotion down, out of sight, like his aunt had taught him to, and presents a cool exterior to Potter. He gazes at Potter’s concerned face for a beat, and then, quite out of the blue, says, ‘Your hour starts now.’

Potter gasps, his eyes widening. ‘ _Here_?’ He stiffens, but he can’t hide the yearning in his eyes.

Draco doesn’t dignify that with an answer. ‘Have a look around. Is there someone you fancy here?’

Potter gazes at him. ‘You.’

Draco ignores the trilling flutter in his chest. ‘Apart from me.’

Potter stares, possibly trying to fathom what Draco has in mind. Draco stares back, and waits for him to obey.

Potter turns to the crowd. ‘OK, so there’s a—’

‘You’re not to speak until the hour’s up. Except one word: point and say, _him_. It’s that word only or your safeword. Your choice.’

Potter dutifully shuts up. He casts a long look around the club and finally points and says the word he’s allowed to say: ‘Him.’

 _Him_ is a man in his late-twenties, with brown, floppy hair, an easy smile and a lot of charm. Slim and agile; the Seeker’s build clearly pushes Potter’s buttons.

 ‘Wait here. Don’t move.’

There’s something exquisite about knowing that Potter _won’t_ move. That he’ll be there, waiting patiently for Draco to return. In a life of upheavals where everything has been unstable, this is a certainty that Draco relishes.

Even if it’ll be short-lived.

He ignores the stab in his chest and approaches the man with his suggestion, pointing at Potter. The man—Robbie—is intrigued. He accepts. They return to Potter.

‘Robbie, this is Harry.’ Draco does the introductions, and Potter—true to his word—nods but says nothing. The man runs his eyes all over Potter, licking his lips. ‘Is he big?’ he asks Draco.

Draco smirks at Potter, who sits there while they discuss him. ‘He’s big. You’ll love it. Coming?’

Robbie leads the way, excited. The three of them head to the loos, which are mostly occupied by couples fucking. As luck would have it, they take the last stall.

They shut the door. It’s cramped with the three of them inside. Potter stands on Draco’s right, across from Robbie, his expression closed off. He has no idea what’s coming, but he probably guesses.

 Draco’s desires—at least where Potter is concerned—are a tangle, messed up like he is. A war of contradictions: Draco wants to please Potter, and he wants to hurt him. He wants to see Potter in ecstasy, but he can’t allow himself to be the one to do it. So, he’s chosen another way, a way that gives and takes at the same time.

‘You’ve been such a good boy so far,’ Draco tells Potter and watches with pleasure his instant reaction, the blood colouring his face. ‘I think you deserve a treat for being so good. So… _obedient_. Which is why Robbie here will give you a… gift.’

Potter doesn’t open his mouth, but his expression speaks for itself. Wanking in front of Draco or giving him a handjob didn’t push Potter too far. This is what might bring Potter to his limits. What might make him walk away.

Draco almost wants it. Let Potter walk away in a huff, so Draco can start the process of getting over him. Let him leave and never return.

But Draco can’t deny what he truly wishes is for Potter to stay, to allow himself to be shared, to submit to Draco’s preposterous demand. The blush on Potter’s skin indicates he doesn’t find the idea unappealing even though he’s clearly struggling to accept that he can be used like this.

That he _wants_ to be used like this.

Draco gives Potter time, and Potter half-shuts his eyes and nods.

‘Shall we start?’ Draco asks Robbie, who’s been watching their mute interaction with curiosity.

‘How do we do this?’ Robbie asks Potter.

Potter turns wordlessly to Draco.

‘He’ll stand,’ Draco tells Robbie, a thrill in his veins at how pliant Potter is. ‘You’ll kneel.’

Robbie falls on the floor with little care for his jeans. ‘And you’ll be watching.’ He chuckles. ‘Never done that before, but—’ he throws a glance at Draco. ‘It’s hot. I could do you, too.’

Potter’s eyes flash at this, his fists curl. Draco’s ridiculously pleased at this reaction. He’s tempted to say _yes_ only to make Potter suffer more, but in the end he declines. ‘Just Harry. Like I said, you’ll follow my instructions to the letter.’

Potter trembles—with anticipation or trepidation, Draco doesn’t know. ‘If you want to use your word, now is the time, Potter.’

Potter shuts his lips. Robbie unzips him, pushes unceremoniously jeans and boxers to the top of his thighs, and holds Potter’s cock. Potter’s still soft, but growing, his eyes on Draco’s.

Draco can’t look anywhere else either, even when he speaks to Robbie. ‘Stroke him first, slowly—that’s it.’

‘You feel good, Harry. Do you like that?’ Robbie says, his fist tugging Potter to hardness.

A soft expression steals over Potter; he’s yielding. ‘He likes it,’ Draco says.

Robbie gets the message and stops addressing Potter. ‘Do you want me to suck him now?’

‘Lick him first. Just the tip.’ Robbie licks the slit and Potter’s face creases in a flash of desire. ‘Again,’ Draco says. ‘Harder this time.’

Robbie follows his instructions with no hesitation or delay—Potter chose well. At Draco’s words, Robbie licks the underside of Potter’s cock, wraps his tongue around the head, laps at the foreskin, and finally—Potter standing proud and hard, all eight inches of him—he sucks him down.

Draco glimpses this only with the periphery of his vision. Locked in each other eyes, all Draco can see is Potter’s expression, and it’s _burning_. All he can hear is his own voice, cool and calm, giving instructions as if he’s advising servants about the desired place setting. ‘Touch his perineum, stroke him… yes, press there. He likes that.’

Potter’s chest rises and falls, his breathing ragged while Draco tells Robbie to do everything _he_ wants to but won’t allow himself. ‘Let him thrust in your mouth. Let him in deep.’

Nothing can ever be more riveting than watching Potter surrender, inch by inch, to Draco’s will. ‘Touch Robbie’s hair, Potter,’ he says, and Potter does; he blindly stretches his hand—he won’t take his eyes off Draco for a second—and threads shaky fingers through Robbie’s hair.

‘You’re so good, Potter,’ Draco assures him. He’s rewarded with a groan. ‘I wish you could see yourself. How beautiful you look.’

He looks devastatingly gorgeous like this, wanton, debauched, beautifully slutty; being sucked off and being watched; being given to a stranger with no complaint. Draco might not have Potter for long, but while he has him, he’ll do what he wants with him.

_He’s mine to do as I will._

Merlin, Draco’s going to erupt like a fucking volcano. His sweat is dripping down his back as if he’s the one performing oral sex on Potter, and his erection demands urgent attention. Potter’s letting out soft moans now, his fingers pulling Robbie’s hair, his eyes—as always—on Draco. At some point, Robbie undid his own jeans and is now stroking himself with one hand, the other clamped on Harry’s hips, while his mouth ceaselessly works down Potter’s shaft.

Draco says, ‘Stay still, Robbie, and let Harry show you how much he likes your mouth.’

Potter tightens his hand in Robbie’s hair, and thrusts. He repeats it harder, and then pumps away, his eyes saying what his mouth can’t. _Take it, take it._ Robbie moans uncontrollably, loudly, enthusiastically as he lets Potter bruise his throat. Before long, he shudders and shoots on the floor.

‘You can come now, Harry,’ Draco says, and Potter holds his eyes, thrusts erratically, and spills in Robbie’s mouth, who swallows it all.

‘Good boy,’ Draco says, and they both shiver, the man on the floor and the man against the cubicle wall. ‘Now kiss.’

Potter bristles instantly.

‘Do you have something you want to say?’ Draco asks him.

The objection doesn’t come.

‘Kiss like you _mean_ it,’ Draco repeats, voice sharp, ‘or say the word.’

 _Kiss him like it’s **me**_ **,** he wants to say but doesn’t. But Potter’s face must read it in his expression, because it changes from incalcitrant to determined. He grabs Robbie, hauls him up, and with a last searing look at Draco, smashes his mouth on Robbie’s. Potter attacks the poor man like a hurricane, savage and unrelenting. He messes Robbie’s hair, hands pulling at his locks, and he presses his body against him, rubbing his soft, slick cock on the man’s open jeans. The force of his desire, of his need, leaves Draco flayed. Potter doesn’t stop kissing Robbie—Draco’s hasn’t commanded it yet—and Draco finds the air gone from the room, his lungs struggling to breathe, his erection bordering on painful. Still, Potter kisses the man with unabated ferocity.

‘The hour’s up.’ Draco’s voice is hoarse, almost inaudible.

Potter immediately lets Robbie go.

‘Wow, man…’ Robbie manages, a little dazed.

‘Thank you, Robbie, for your help.’ Potter grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him out of the cubicle before the man finishes saying ‘Anytime’ or doing up his jeans.

Potter shuts the door and turns with a fierce expression towards Draco.

It unnerves Draco, this implacable look. He clears his throat and speaks lightly. ‘It’s time to go back to the others, Potter. I hope you enjoyed your little treat.’

Potter doesn’t move. Jeans unbuttoned, cock out, he should look ridiculous, but he looks dangerous. Brutal.

Draco’s voice hardens. ‘Your time’s up,’ he repeats. ‘Off with you.’

Potter crosses the two feet that separate them and crowds Draco against the wall. ‘Why won’t you touch me?’

‘Did I say you could speak?’

A gleeful smile spreads on Potter’s face. ‘The hour’s up. This is not your time anymore.’

Draco quivers under his gaze, and Potter won’t leave.

‘This is _my_ time.’ Potter drops on his knees. Before Draco has the chance to protest, Harry’s unzips him and wraps his hand around his erection. Draco can’t help the moan that escapes him.

Potter gazes up. ‘Do you remember the safeword?’

Draco nods.

‘Are you going to use it?’

 _Hippogriff,_ Draco wants to shout, _hippogriff._ But he’s too far gone; he can’t resist Potter on his knees again, his lips swollen from kissing another man because Draco wanted him to. He can’t stop what’s happening any more than he stop the earth from shaking.

Potter offers him a crooked, delighted smile. ‘All right then,’ he says and sucks him down.

It’s nothing like the slow, tantalising cock-sucking that Robbie had offered Potter under Draco’s tutelage. This is eager, almost sloppy, Potter taking him all in and sucking him off with such force that Draco’s too-swift orgasm feels like an out-of-body experience. He mewls as he comes, tugging Potter’s hair.

They remain like this for a while, Potter on his knees with his head on Draco’s stomach, his breath tickling Draco’s sweaty skin, and Draco leaning back on the wall, his fingers absently tracing Potter’s face.

Draco lacks the energy or desire to return to dancing or drinking. ‘Let’s go home.’

Potter raises his head. ‘Will you stay with me?’ His fervour has evaporated, leaving him shivery.

Draco cups his cheek, his thumb tracing the corner of his mouth. ‘I will.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captive Prince content warnings: murder attempt, drugging

It’s the first night they share a bed.

Draco makes sure Potter’s warm and comfortable that night, a glass of water on his bedside table, and Draco’s arms around his waist as he slowly drifts to sleep. Draco follows him soon enough, but he wakes up in the middle of the night—it can be noisy at the seafront when all the party-goers return home—and he sees Potter’s eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He pulls him flush against him, as if he can glue the two of them together. Potter breathes calmer afterwards, his lids fluttering shut.

In the morning, Draco flees before Potter wakes. He takes a long walk along the beach, reaching far into Hove and back again. The bracing wind fails to clear his head or soothe his heart. Every step he takes counts down the minutes he has left before Potter leaves this fun little interlude he’s had for his real life.

Back at the guesthouse, Amy nurses the mother of hangovers and shushes him when he attempts a ‘good morning’. The rest of the guests, bar the Australian couple but including the salesman of magical encyclopedias, are having breakfast at the dining room. The aroma of fresh coffee and fried bacon drives Draco to the kitchen to prepare a plate for himself. He wonders if he should prepare one for Potter, but there’s no answer when he knocks on his door.

A chill in his bones, Draco sits down to write.

 

 

> **The Gift**
> 
> Chapter Seven
> 
>  
> 
> Louis was reading a report from General Frere regarding the state of defenses in the border castles when his door opened without a knock and the slave entered, accompanied by two strange men.
> 
> Adrenaline shot through Louis. He’d been expecting the assassination attempt for some time, and it seemed it was about to take place now, in his private chambers, while he was in his undershirt. The wine he’d been drinking coursed sluggishly in his veins. His feet were bare. What an undignified death! And they brought the slave to use as a pawn, removing his shackles and his magic-stifling gloves.
> 
> Louis set the book down and calmly wandered to the balcony as if to enjoy the view. He’d left his wand in his bedroom, too far to do any good now. His best option was to avoid the hexes.
> 
> ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ he asked the slave, ignoring the others.
> 
> The slave said, ‘I don’t think the Prince is in an amorous mood.’
> 
> Is that what they’d told him when they let him out of his room? ‘I do have the most _dreadful_ headache,’ said Louis.
> 
> He barely finished his sentence when the first man, short and moustached, got down to business. ‘Avada Kedavra!’
> 
> Louis jumped sideways to avoid the green blaze, which missed him by an inch. His reactions were slower than normal; he wondered about the wine he’d been served tonight. But he couldn’t waste a moment. Rolling on the floor towards the advancing man, Louis kicked his legs from under him. The man fell, his wand flying out of his hand. Louis scrambled to grab it, alert for more spells by the others. He had no delusions that Max wouldn’t joyfully participate in the attack. The flogging Louis had given him had brought the slave to within an inch of death, in addition to the other torments he’d showered upon him.
> 
> Indeed, as he fought the short man for his wand, he heard the slave’s voice from behind him. ‘Sectumsempra!’
> 
> Both Louis and his attacker froze for a moment, awaiting the bleeding, gaping wounds. They appeared—but not on Louis. His attacker’s shirt turned red, and he toppled on Louis’s carpet, just as the other man, who’d figured out that the slave wasn’t on their side, turned his wand on Max.
> 
> He didn’t get far. Prince Max wasn’t hailed as a famous warrior for nothing. He ducked the man’s curses, eluding the spells like a panther, and grabbed him with his bare hands. ‘Incendio,’ he whispered, and the man’s skin sizzled and burned. He cried out in agony, dropping his wand.
> 
> It was over as quickly as it had started. Trying not to sway, Louis took in the destruction in the room, the man sprawled at his feet, face white in death, shirt drenched red, and the man that the slave still grabbed hard as a vice.
> 
> ‘What do you want to do with him?’ the slave asked.
> 
> Louis knew what his attacker would say. A quick glance at his outfit suggested he was from Elvairon, even though he didn’t have the accent. The man would claim it was indeed an Elvairon conspiracy. He’d drag the slave into it. The Regent would have no choice but to attack Elvairon as a matter of honour. Elvairon, in the midst of political upheaval, would fall, and the Regent would rule over both countries.
> 
> Louis doubted that he’d be invited to share the Regent’s power.
> 
> ‘Hold him for me,’ Louis told the slave and picked up a wand from the floor. Stalking closer to the man, he aimed it at his chest. He spoke quietly. ‘Avada Kedavra.’
> 
> The attacker collapsed, and the slave, surprised, glared at Louis. ‘You could’ve asked him who sent him!’
> 
> ‘I know what he’d say.’
> 
> A moment of silence descended. Louis realised it then: he was alone in his rooms with the slave. He’d just been attacked. What better time to take his revenge on the man who’d murdered his brother? Kill Prince Max, and claim he was part of the murder attempt. Remove him like he removed Auguste.
> 
> The slave’s eyes narrowed as he read Louis’s intentions. He opened his palms to defend himself, or to attack.  
> 
> Louis stepped back. Whatever was in his wine fogged his brain, but he knew that he couldn’t do it; couldn’t kill him. Not when the slave had just saved his life. Louis walked all the way back until he reached a wall and couldn’t go any further. The drug burned in his blood and made him drop the wand he held.
> 
> ‘Leaving this room will put your life in peril,’ he told the slave, voice straining. ‘If you escape now, you’ll be hunted, your life forfeit.’
> 
> ‘My life’s forfeit anyway.’ The slave removed a shirt from one of the men and dragged it over his slave silks. ‘I need to return to my country.’
> 
> The idea Louis owed this man a life debt brought a wave of nausea—or maybe it was the drug. ‘You’re making a mistake. I can protect you here. Not if you go out there.’  
> 
> The slave laughed with scorn and exited, leaving Louis alone in a ruined room.

 

The sun falls hot on Draco’s desk when he pushes his parchment aside and stands. Saturday afternoon in early July, a cloudless sky: the beach is packed with people. Sounds trickle back as Draco leaves the world of Lumonde and returns to his surroundings. Talk from next door. A child’s laugh.

Cautiously, he opens the door and peers in the corridor. Potter’s door is ajar. The child’s voice comes from inside his room.

‘…and you’ve got your toys? Everything?’ Potter asks in the voice some adults use with children; mainly adults who aren’t used to children.

‘Do we have to go now?’ the kid whines.

‘Yes, we do,’ Potter explains patiently. It sounds like it’s not the first time he’s had to. ‘Nan is waiting for you. She’ll want to hear all about your day.’

Draco walks out into the corridor. Potter holds the hand of a small boy with turquoise hair and leads him out of his room. He smiles brilliantly at Draco when he catches sight of him. ‘You disappeared this morning,’ he says.

‘I came back, and you were gone,’ Draco returns.

Potter nods at the little one. ‘Teddy and I had plans today. Teddy, this is Draco.’

Teddy examines Draco, and Draco stares back. He’s not sure what to say and comes out with: ‘Are you the werewolf baby?’

Draco can’t guess how much they understand at the age this boy is—five, six?—but the kid looks up eagerly. ‘Did you know my dad?’

A familiar sense of sadness and regret rises in Draco. ‘I did,’ he says, crouching in front of the boy. ‘He taught me in Hogwarts for a year.’

‘Was he a good teacher?’

‘The best,’ Draco assures Teddy. He doesn’t mention how he’d made fun of Lupin’s shabby robes at the time. The kid doesn’t need to know how much of a twat Draco had been back then.

Potter’s eyes shine as he watches the exchange. He blinks a few times, glances at his watch and assumes a business-like tone.  ‘Well, Teddy and I had a fun day at the beach, but it’s time to take the Floo and go home.’ He attempts to pull him towards the stairs.

Teddy scrunches his face. ‘But I want to go on a broom. You promised!’

‘No,’ Potter says, ‘I said we’ll go on a broom another day. We can’t do it here with all the Muggles around. Floo it is. You like the Floo!’

‘No, I don’t!’ Teddy insists. ‘I want to go home on a _broom_!’

Teddy’s shrill voice indicates he’s one second away from crying, and Potter seems to sense it. He gives Draco a desperate look and speaks in the forced calm voice grown-ups use when a child is being unreasonable. ‘There are too many Muggles here to use brooms. Floo is the _only_ option.’

‘I want the—’ the child pauses, opening his mouth, and—

Here it comes. Draco winces in anticipation.

‘BROOM!!!!’ Teddy screams, and Potter looks so distraught that Draco feels the need to intervene, caught as he is in the middle of this scene.

‘You can go on a broom when you get home, since you live out in the country. Right?’ he asks with a glance at Potter.

‘I WANT NOW!’ Teddy sobs, snot and tears running down his face. He’s crying so desperately, so pathetically, as if his heart is being torn from his little chest. It’s decidedly unsettling to hear the distress in the child’s voice over something so trivial.

Potter doesn’t seem to be able to bear it either. He takes Teddy in his arms and climbs down the stairs, his face torn in anguish. He alternates from being stern (‘Brooms aren’t allowed on Brighton beach. We’ll get arrested.’) to fake cheerful (‘We can go on a broom ride through the woods near Nan’s house! Wouldn’t that be great?’) to pleading (‘But you _like_ the Floo, you said you like to peek at the other living rooms!’).

Nothing works. Teddy’s tantrum is heard on the top floor even as Potter drags him into the fireplace on the ground floor, until it gets cut off abruptly.

 _Fuck the Four Founders_. Draco’s never going to have children if they’re anything like that. He himself was a very well-behaved child, although he suspects that was because he never had to content himself with things not going his way. As far as he remembers, everything he wanted he had, brand-new, within the space of an hour.

When Potter comes back an hour later, he looks thoroughly dishevelled, and heartsore.

‘You OK?’ Draco asks when he knocks on his door. ‘Did you go on a broom ride after all?’

‘No,’ Potter exhales. ‘He stopped crying halfway through the Floo. Then he wanted more of it, so we travelled to the Weasleys, startling Arthur in the process who was fiddling with a Muggle shaving machine, and then back.’

‘So, Teddy likes the Floo.’

Potter laughs that delirious laugh that sounds he’s close to a breakdown. ‘Yes, he does. I knew he did. I don’t know what got into him.’

The gloom on his face is so deep so suddenly that Draco’s alarmed. ‘I’m about to go out and get some Japanese.’ He wasn’t, but Potter seems to need a distraction urgently. ‘There’s a place up the street on the way to Waitrose. Does some great Bento boxes we can eat on the beach.’

Potter nods, looking grateful. ‘I’d like that. Sure.’

 

They emerge from the guesthouse to a bright afternoon, filled with noise and ocean smells. The Muggles are out in force, strolling the seafront, eating Brighton Rock, or lounging on the pebbly beach. The Japanese restaurant assaults Draco’s nostrils with appetizing smells of ginger, miso soup and green tea. By the time the Bento boxes are ready, Draco has made Potter laugh once. Potter asks Draco to call him Harry, and Draco relents. He says it often. He likes how it lights up Harry’s eyes, just a bit.

They find an empty spot to sit on the beach, guarding their food from the audacious seagulls. Groups of teenagers on bright towels raise the noise volume by eighty percent, an elderly couple shares a silent picnic, and families with children splash in the water. The tide is out, exposing the beach’s belly, wet and scattered with seashells. The haunting, burned out structure of the old pier catches Draco’s eyes as it always does. A woman photographs it, pacing the shore to find a better angle to capture the dead monument.

Draco takes small bites of his tendura, and their conversation trails off. Tension blooms between them. There’s an almost tangible feeling of anticipation, the stillness of an osprey before it dives into the sea. Harry gazes at the horizon, a troubled expression robbing the light from his eyes.

‘I’m going to be a father,’ he says.

Draco puts his bite down. To say he’s shocked is an understatement. That’s not what he expected. He’s not sure _what_ he expected. An avalanche of thoughts and implications and questions thunders in his brain. His memories of the past fortnight are cast in a subtly different light. The exploding glass; Harry’s distress over Teddy’s tantrum.

He asks the big question: ‘Who’s the mother?’

Harry clasps his hands tight over his knees. ‘Ginny.’

A cold fist clenches Draco’s chest. ‘You mean, all this time—?’

‘No,’ Harry hurries to reassure him. ‘We’re not seeing each other; haven’t been together for almost two years.’

‘Then how?’

Harry shrugs. ‘We stayed friendly. Neither of us was in a relationship so we kept shagging now and again. Sex with the ex, and all that.’

Draco thinks he sees the reason for Harry’s turmoil. ‘Does she want to get rid of it? Is that what upsets you?’

‘I’d be fine with that. That’s what the plan was—at first. But she changed her mind. She says it’s a gift—new life after all the death.’

Draco says gently, ‘And you don’t want it.’

‘How can I be a father, Draco? I’m just about to turn twenty-two. I eat takeaway four times a week because I can’t be bothered to cook one of the three recipes I know. I can’t even do my own laundry properly. I can’t get Teddy to eat his veggies, collect his toys or go in the fucking Floo without him crying his eyes out. How the _fuck_ am I going to be a father?’

His voice, harsh with pain, rings out on the beach, attracting looks. Discreetly, Draco casts a Silencing and Disillusionment spell around them. He reaches out and takes Harry’s hand in his own, and Harry squeezes it. Draco isn’t an expert on children in any imaginable way. He knows one thing, though: ‘If _you_ won’t be a good father, then who the fuck will, Harry?’

Harry darts a glance full of hope and despair at Draco, who continues with more force. ‘You are—as it’s been made excruciatingly clear to all of us by the papers—the most heroic, selfless person to have graced Britain’s shores this century. You’ve befriended giants and house-elves and Neville Longbottom. You walked into a forest to protect people who weren’t even your flesh and blood. I’d never have made that decision for a bunch of strangers. You’—here Draco’s voice tightens—‘saved me when I wasn’t worth saving. After I’d pointed a wand at you. You still came back. You got me out.’

Harry gracefully pretends he can’t see Draco’s stinging eyes. ‘Being a hero doesn’t make someone a good father.’

‘No. But you didn’t do all of these things because of your courage, Harry. You did them because of your capacity for love.’

Harry stares at the pebbles between his feet.

‘You’ll raise the kid right. I know you will,’ Draco finishes.

The sun has moved lower in the sky, casting the beach in deep amber tones. The golden hour. The elderly couple is still silently sharing their meal. Draco’s thumb traces circles on Harry’s palm. Draco might be closer to Harry than ever, but he can’t shake off the feeling of loss penetrating his bones. This feels like an ending, of sorts.

‘Do you—do you plan on getting back together?’ Draco asks.

‘That’s the other thing.’ Harry sighs. ‘I mean, I thought we should, you know? But she won’t hear it. We didn’t work out, she says. We have different ideas of how a relationship should be, she says. We’d fight and make the kid’s life miserable. She says.’

‘Do you actually _want_ to be with her?’

Harry shakes his head. ‘No, she’s right. It’s not fair to ask her to get back with me when I’m not in love with her, is it?’

‘I’d say it’s insulting even.’

‘Gee, Draco, tell us what you really think.’

It breaks the tension at least, and they both seem to breathe easier. Harry scuffs his shoe on the pebbles. ‘I’d always thought that when I’d have a family, it’d be—it’d like my parents. Me and the wife and the kids living together. That’s what family is, isn’t it? A home.’ He leans his head on his knees, his voice muffled. ‘I wanted the kid to have the family I didn’t have.’

Draco stares out to the sea. The wind has picked up, ruffling his hair off his face. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. ‘Family isn’t mummy and daddy sharing a bedroom, Harry. Family is— It’s standing beside your spouse when your houseguest murders your son’s teacher in your drawing room. Family is holding each other’s hand when a snake coils around your feet looking for treachery. Family is when you love someone even when they’ve utterly failed you. Family is where they love you the most and cut you the deepest. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but as an orphan you have an idealized concept of family, and Ginny is right in disabusing you of it.’ Draco pauses, feeling Harry’s startled eyes on him. ‘Family is what you make of it. It can involve any combination of men and women and domiciles. Hell, the Muggles even have activists attempting to legalise gay marriage.’

‘Men marrying men? I hope it happens soon.’ A trace of Harry’s familiar mischief appears in his smirk. ‘My uncle will have an apoplexy.’

They remain like this, holding hands, quiet and thoughtful. Silence gathers around them, soothing like a balm.

Harry breaks it. He sounds calmer, even though his voice is brittle. ‘Ginny says, if it’s a boy I can name him James.’ He hastily wipes a tear trickling down his cheek. ‘Lily if it’s a girl.’

‘Beautiful names,’ Draco says, squeezing his hand. ‘Not as beautiful as Draco but you can’t have everything, I suppose.’

Harry chuckles, like Draco was hoping he would.

They take some bites from their now-cold food and throw the rest of it to the seagulls, who swoop in with glee and consume every last scrap. The tide is coming in, and the beach is emptying. The cooler temperature brings goosebumps on Draco’s arms.

‘After school,’ Harry starts, ‘I felt lost at sea. I think that’s why I clung on Ginny for as long as I did. School has rules and regulations and a very strict schedule, and you always know what you should be doing, but when you’re a grown-up, you can do whatever you want. Go anywhere. Be anyone. All that freedom; it should be a good thing, right? But the sea is dark and endless. There are no stars to navigate by.’

Draco muses on it. ‘Perhaps people can be our stars.’

‘Draco…’ Harry sings the name, a fond expression on his face. ‘You’re already a star.’ His smile is almost shy. ‘A constellation, all of my own.’

Warm to the tips of his toes, Draco reaches out and strokes Harry’s face. The last walls between them are crumbling down; what’s left is the two of them, open-hearted, trusting, touching. Draco had never imagined it’d feel like this: so vulnerable and terrifying and… natural. ‘I’ve never really understood why you came back to me,’ he says quietly. If they’ve reached this point, it’s because Harry razed all the obstacles Draco shoved between them. ‘But I won’t complain.’

Harry leans into Draco’s touch, eyes closing. He sounds serious, almost formal, when he says, ‘When we touch… you feel _right_ , Draco. In a way no one else ever has.’

Chest tight with emotion, Draco takes Harry’s jaw in his hands and kisses him.

 

They end up in Harry’s room, stumbling in, still kissing, kicking the door shut behind them. The soft dark cocoon of the gathering night shields them from the rest of the world. Harry lights some candles with a quick spell, throws his wand and glasses on an armchair and resumes kissing Draco, who’s already breathless. But he can’t stop; he won’t stop. He slides his fingers under Harry’s T-shirt, exploring the heated skin. His own shirt rustles as it’s pressed flush against Harry’s chest, moving as they do in a blind stumble towards the bed.

Harry pulls back before they reach it. ‘I should tell you… I’m checking out tomorrow.’

Draco receives the news stoically. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. It’s not the end. Harry likes him, he’s said so. But the fear of being left behind, the fear that has breathed down Draco’s neck all these weeks sinks claws in his consciousness, so he shoves it deep below and locks it tight. ‘We’ll have to make tonight a night to remember then.’

‘I’ll be back,’ Harry insists. ‘I just need to—sort everything out properly, you know? Get back to my life, talk to Ginny—make plans.’ He grasps Draco’s face with both hands. ‘I’ll be back. I promise.’

Draco’s chosen to trust, and trust he will. ‘I believe you.’ He hauls Harry close again and kisses him, savouring his sweet mouth, his hands busy undoing Harry’s buttons, but before long he senses a distance in Harry. He pulls back, just an inch, and glances at him. Harry’s expression, content but not quite _present_ , reveals that thoughts of “Ginny” and “plans” have intruded in his mind—and, what’s worse, are threatening Draco’s imminent pleasure.

Well, Draco won’t be having _that._ ‘Anything on your mind? If it isn’t me getting you on all fours and fucking you blind, then—’

Harry shuts his eyes for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. I’m— I’m here now. Ready to get on my knees and—’ his voice drops lower ‘—get fucked.’

Draco considers him. ‘I don’t like distracted men.’ He pauses for a beat, enough for Harry to wonder, and continues, level-voiced and dispassionate. ‘It displeases me. Makes me want to teach you some manners.’

Draco’s words have the desired effect: Harry’s attention sharpens to a glittering edge. He pretends he’s casual too, but the threadiness of his voice belies his eagerness. ‘You should do as you see fit, Malfoy.’

Joy and excitement and pure hot lust bubble inside Draco, but he shows none of it. He takes a step back, face smooth and sharp, his command ringing like crystal in the room. ‘Lose your clothes and lie down on the bed.’

Anticipation ripples on Harry’s face. He undresses hastily and lies on the sea-green sheets, all yearning and loose limbs, a vision in the flickering candlelight.

‘I’m going to fuck you, Harry,’ Draco informs him casually, removing his own clothes. ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll be limping all the way to London.’ He raises his eyes from unbuttoning his sleeve and meets Harry’s. ‘But you know what I really want tonight?’

Harry, already aroused, breathes out the required answer. ‘What?’

Draco pulls his wand out and twirls it. ‘I want you to be helpless when I fuck you.’ He casts an Incarcerous that binds Harry’s wrists and ankles to the bed. Gasping in shock, Harry tests the binds. They don’t budge.

‘Any magical animals spring to mind?’ Draco asks. He kicks the last item of his clothing aside but keeps the wand handy.

Harry runs his gaze over Draco’s naked body and smirks. Even tied-up, he looks invincible. ‘Do your worst, Malfoy.’

‘A _challenge_ ,’ Draco says with relish. ‘Oh, I was hoping for some good ol’ Potter defiance.’ Another wrist movement, and a tie flies out of Harry’s wardrobe into Draco’s hands. He crawls over Harry, and wraps it around his apprehensive face, obscuring the blazing eyes. ‘I’d gag you too, but I want to hear you scream.’

‘Oh, _god_.’

‘You can call me anything you want, sugar.’ Hovering over Harry, he steals a quick kiss, a wordless plea for Harry to trust him. Tension runs through Harry’s restrained limbs, which has only increased ten times with the blindfold. His arousal, though, hasn’t flagged one bit.

Draco scans the room for inspiration and his gaze alights at just the thing: a toy Teddy must have forgotten behind. It’s an ugly troll with a tuft of pink hair as tall as its tiny body. Draco Summons it and settles on Harry’s side. Harry must feel the dip in the mattress; his turns his face to Draco’s.

Draco waits. He lets a long moment pass, watching as uncertainty builds up inside Harry at what’s coming and from where. When he seems to lower his guard, even fractionally, Draco lets the troll doll’s hair caress Harry’s ribs.

Harry jumps.

‘Did that hurt you?’ Draco asks with mock concern. He circles the toy’s hair over a nipple, soft as a secret.

‘No, I was—I was startled.’

Draco rises to his knees over Harry. He zig-zags the troll’s hair down his stomach and up his torso, following the trail with his fingernails. Pleasure bleeds in Harry’s tense body, anticipation and stimulation blending in a potent mix.

Voice hoarse, Harry asks, ‘Are you going to tickle me to orgasm?’

‘I see we’re insolent today.’ Draco grabs his wand to Summon one more thing, this time from the private compartment of his trunk. It flies into his hand through the open window. He bends over Harry and takes his cock in his hand, giving it a couple of light strokes. Harry moans and squirms, his fists curling in his binds.

 ‘There.’ Draco fits the cock ring onto Harry, who grunts in frustration. ‘You look perfect.’

Harry does. Bondage suits his powerful body. Makes Draco want to do all kinds of dirty things to him.

‘Now, where were we?’ Draco picks up the troll doll and casts a temperature smell on the hair, turning it hot. He tests the heat on his wrist, and when it’s on the edge of pleasurable and painful, he brings it over Harry’s stomach. ‘Let me know if this OK, Harry.’

The tone Draco uses alerts Harry that something new is coming: at the heated brush of the doll’s hair he arches like a bow. ‘Motherfucking—’

‘Can’t take it?’

A provocative smile dawns on Harry’s face. ‘That all you got?’

Draco grins. He’ll enjoy making Harry beg so very much. ‘I haven’t even begun. Stay still.’

Toy in hand, Draco trails the warm hair on Harry’s skin, before he switches the spell to arctic cold. Harry curses, louder this time, squirming in his binds.

‘I said, _stay still_.’ Draco keeps a relentless pace, alternating between hot and cold, dragging the troll’s hair over Harry’s biceps, corded in an effort to keep still, his chest, the inside of his thighs and the back of his knees. Draco’s fingernails and sometimes his tongue follow the trail of the toy: hot and cold and rough and wet, shifting in a hypnotic, unpredictable rhythm, travelling from Harry’s neck to between his toes. A light sheen of sweat covers Harry as he tries to stop writhing, not always successfully.

Sparks fly in Draco’s veins, his desire an inferno he pushes back in order to focus on Harry’s pleasure. He drowns in sensations: the taste of Harry’s skin when he bites his shoulder, the tender dip between his collarbones, the pulse beating in his neck, the rasp of body hair against the slide of the toy, the musky smell of Harry’s sex, calling to Draco’s every nerve like a dissolute siren.

Harry breathes raggedly, body taut, arms and legs straining, but in the midst of this tension, there’s peace. Little by little, with every scratch and lick, with every hot or cold touch, Draco wants to chip away at Harry’s worries and fears: he wants to lick him clean of shame and guilt, and leave him shining and new like a sea-washed pebble.

Harry’s becoming more incoherent, Draco notes with gratification; his muscles are contorted in the assault of sensations, quivering, but his mouth is parted open, his expression rapturous as he seems finally to let go of whatever is happening outside this room, this very bed, and focus on the faint marks Draco leaves on his skin.

‘You’ve been so good, Harry,’ Draco tells him. ‘Taking this so well.’ He strokes Harry’s reddened torso, and his own lust comes flooding in, an aching, powerful want that blisters his skin. He throws the toy on the floor, suddenly impatient, and unties Harry’s binds. Draco spends a moment massaging his wrists and ankles, encouraging blood flow. ‘I’m going to need you to turn over now. On your knees.’

With Draco’s help, Harry assumes a position on all fours, still wearing the blindfold and the cock-ring. Draco settles behind him, kneading his arse cheeks, like he’d wanted to all those days ago. It feels as good as he’d imagined. Harry moans, dipping his waist and pushing his arse higher.

‘Merlin, you’re such a slut,’ Draco tells him fondly. He pats Harry’s buttocks. ‘But you’re _my_ slut.’

‘Does that mean you won’t share me anymore?’ A hesitancy in Harry’s tone suggests it’s not really his wish.

Draco leans over Harry’s shoulder to whisper in his ear. ‘I’ll share you even _more_ , now that I know you’re mine. I’ll have a queue around the block, a hundred men waiting to come and fuck you senseless.’ It’s an empty threat, Harry’s arse is Draco’s alone and he won’t share _that_ , but the words make Harry shudder and let out a drawn out ecstatic moan. ‘Oh, you like that?’ Draco Conjures lube, and slides a slick digit into Harry, urgency propelling him forward. ‘But I’ll be the first one to take your pretty arse.’

Harry groans while Draco prepares him, shivering, pleading, squirming. He makes such a pretty sight that Draco has to clasp Harry’s hips to stop the tremor in his own limbs. He’s wanted this for so very long, and now he has it: Harry, open and trusting, willing, submitting to Draco’s desires. Draco wants to drag this night out, but he can’t wait. He pulls his fingers out and lines up, shoving the tip of his cock a little roughly at the edges of Harry’s entrance.

‘Now’s the time to say the word,’ Draco says, his voice croaked.

Harry’s voice is raw. ‘ _Please_.’

Draco shoves Harry’s head down, tilting his arse in the air. ‘This might hurt.’ Harry’s position on all fours isn’t kind on virgins.

‘Promise?’

 _That’s my boy_. With a push, Draco slides in and buries himself inside the tight, wet heat. He has to shut his eyes for a moment: the sensation is nothing short of cataclysmic. Taking a deep breath, he thrusts hard, his impatience taking over. Harry groans, mouthing muffled pleas for _harder, faster, more_. Draco gives everything he’s got: more and more and then some more. Digging his fingers in Harry’s sides, sweat dripping off him, he snaps his hips mercilessly. Harry cries out, his face scrunched in ecstasy. ‘ _Yesyesyesoh_ …’

‘Who knew you’d take it so well, Potter,’ Draco gasps.

‘Please…’ Harry says. ‘I want to see you.’

Draco could refuse—it would only arouse Harry more—but he also wants to see Harry’s face when he brings him off. Pulling out, Draco gently turns Harry on his back and removes the tie and the cock-ring before pushing back in. Sweat is dripping off both of them, drenching the bedding.

Harry blinks and his dazed eyes land on Draco’s face. ‘ _Fuck_ , Draco…’ He sounds almost reverent, lost in a sweet haze, blissed out of his fucking mind. Leaning down, his hips pumping slow and deep, Draco wraps his hand around Harry’s cock and strokes him in time with his thrusts. ‘Come for me, darling.’

Harry’s face is a picture of ecstasy, relief and gratitude as he spills, long ropes of his come falling on his stomach and chest. Draco caresses Harry’s sweaty temple and looks into his eyes, his _unbearable_ eyes, dazed and desperate, dark with lust and pleading. ‘You’re so pretty when you’re fucked,’ Draco tells him. ‘You’re so pretty, and I—’ He doesn’t continue, his chest aching a little too much, and kisses him savagely instead, his hips thrusting erratically, uncontrollably, until he empties inside Harry, their fingers interlaced together on the messy sheets.

 

Harry leaves the following morning, a kiss on Draco’s lips and a whispered promise: ‘Soon.’

For the rest of the week, Amy floats around Draco like a concerned butterfly, bringing him tea and touching his shoulder and being _kind_ until he snaps at her that he’s not mourning anyone. ‘He’ll be back,’ he tells her. ‘Soon.’

Draco spends the days at his desk, lost in words or the sea views. He’s in a state of suspension, telling himself he should prepare for the worst, that Harry’s new role in life will keep him away as it very well might. But he hopes; and he trusts.

Saturday dawns glorious. It’s a month since the eclipse, and the weather is getting warmer. Draco’s finished the first draft of his first novel and plots the sequel. Louis and Max lead a campaign to the border of Lumonde. They make plans, united against the Regent, their common enemy. As he sketches out the first few chapters, someone clears his throat behind him. Draco turns, startled.

Harry Potter leans on the doorway of his garret. ‘Hello, lover.’

 

* * *

 

**Epilogue:**

 

Harry glances at the stack of parchment and reads a phrase on the top sheet. ‘“You have a scar.” Is this guy supposed to be me?’

‘Of course not.’ Draco snatches the paper from him. ‘Not everything is about you.’

Harry smirks with amusement. ‘Does he also have black hair?’

Draco shuffles his papers, avoiding Harry’s eyes. ‘Many people have black hair.’

Harry laughs. ‘Right. So when can I read it?’

‘Never.’ Draco smiles to take the sting off. ‘I haven’t even decided if I’ll publish it. This was an exercise in… letting go.’

Harry wraps his arms around him and nuzzles Draco’s hair. ‘You never know. It might even knock Lola Sterling off the top of the lists.’

Draco considers telling him that Lola Sterling is Amy’s pen name; then decides against it. Harry’s already too impressed by her. ‘If I let people read it,’ he says instead, ‘they might arrive at the _entirely_ mistaken conclusion that I’m writing about the two of us when it couldn’t be further from the truth.’

‘Is that so?’

‘All similarities are purely coincidental.’

Harry kisses the top of his hair, stifling a laugh, and sits at the edge of the bed. Two months have passed since the morning Harry checked out of the guesthouse. He’s been visiting every weekend since, but he hasn’t bothered to take his old room, preferring to share Draco’s garret. Amy has now let it out to another writer, a tall, gaunt witch in her fifties who smokes peculiar cigarettes that stink the whole floor up. Draco doesn’t mind; he’s moving out in a few days.

‘It’s time I left this hovel,’ he told Amy when he rented the cottage in Saltdean.

‘Be a relief not to see your mug around here,’ she’d thrown back, and then they hugged each other and cried.

Harry has taken the next few days off work to help him move in his new house. ‘Will you come back to bed?’ he asks.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ Draco replies, bent over his growing novel. He hears the covers rustling, the familiar groan of the mattress, the clink of glasses on the bedside table, and turns his attention on the scene he’s finishing. Max and Louis face each other in the tent over a map, discussing strategy. They might have hated each other, but they’re finding a way to work together, and it turns out they complement each other well. Draco makes a note of a phrase that has come to his mind (“ _It was one kingdom, once_ ”), shuts the window against the September chill and slides in bed with Harry. Before he casts _Nox_ , he takes a last look at his packed trunk, and then, in the whispering night, he allows himself to dream.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, consider reblogging the [tumblr post](https://magpiefngrl.tumblr.com/post/184827859897/new-fic-the-gift)!
> 
> Kudos and comments are seen and loved! ❤❤


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